Tragic
by LaDanaid
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy. Written in her POV. Finally! Chapter 1618 is up! Sorry for delay! To forgive or not to forgive? R&R please! To talk or not to talk?
1. Chapter 1

Title: **Tragic**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - Please keep this in mind as you read! It's a little different!) Cameron's life in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

Note: For those of you who were interested in "Cooking," I wasn't planning on continuing it. However, after much urging from others, I will continue it... But I have started working on this piece, which has become quite long, so it may be a while before I get to "Cooking," but I will! (I would love to hear any suggestions for it, btw!) Also, love to hear feedback in general...good or bad!

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You think your life is part Greek tragedy, part comedy because you just can't make this shit up (well, and sometimes have a harder time seeing the comedy too). Your life just feels like the never ending abyss that you have been falling into, where there has been the occasional ledge of light that you can grab onto for a short while. You figure there has to be a point when you reach the bottom.

You finally realize that your life has to move on. You know deep down that your heart won't, but maybe after time it won't hurt so much. You're still working at Princeton Plainsboro. You love it, and as much as you love him (deeply and hatefully), you respect and love working with House and the rest of the team. They have become your family, because honestly, you have none left and you're really alone in this world. It's dysfunctional, but it works for you. So your world is a little difficult, but you deal, and that's okay.

You meet a nice man, another doctor, Ryan. He's nice. It's been a long time. And you're just tired. You're tired of being alone. He's good to you. You don't feel the same animal draw that you used to feel (please, be real) towards House, and Ryan doesn't always seem to understand the depths of your soul, but you seem to work well together. You balance each out, it works. You get engaged. Your mother used to tell you that things happen for a reason and you try to believe her words.

You walk around trying (pretending) to be blissfully happy for a while with your shiny platinum solitaire ring happily on your finger. House actually congratulates you and kisses you on the cheek. You're shocked. You feel the heat on your cheek for hours after his lips touched you there. It makes you so wet, you need to rush home after work to masturbate. You haven't felt so liberated, and so hot and bothered in so long, you surprise yourself. You shower before you have dinner with Ryan that night. He thinks the glow in your cheeks is the glow of a bride-to-be. You make love that night with an animalistic fervor that he's never seen in you. He thinks it's the excitement of getting married, you know deep down it's because House touched you and you can't get it out of your head because all you see when you're fucking Ryan (and yes, you're doing the fucking) is House approaching you and gently laying his lips softly and slightly wet on your cheek.

His parents don't like you. They want to control the wedding of their only son and child. Because you have no time, and you've been married before, you really don't care, you let them do most of the planning, maybe they will like you more. You don't know why they don't like you, but you think it's just because you're the woman who is 'taking their son away.' What a fucking cliché. Maybe because your smart and educated and not _submissive_ (at least not outside the bedroom). They don't know you at all. Let House describe you to them, and they'll know you're 'Grandma's stuffed animal' oozing with goodness. (Maybe).

You think you're never meant to be happy, not ever, though you try to show everyone that you are or at least try to be. Ryan is killed in a car crash by a drunk driver. He is killed on impact. There was nothing anyone could do, well except if the drunk had never gotten in the car. You think perhaps you were never supposed to experience marital bliss. What the hell is that anyway? You think it's fiction created by the wedding industry anyway. You find out about the accident the next morning at work, and you crumple like a folding chair that needs to be put back in the closet the day after a large holiday dinner.

You think you're a bad person, because deep down, in some ways, you're relieved. It's not because he died, but because you don't have to marry him or his family. He was a wonderful person, and you will miss his companionship, but you know in the depths of your being that he wasn't your soul mate, whatever that really is (and you know who it really is, at least you think so, but the difficulty of it make it seem not so at times). You're glad you weren't living together when he died, that would have made it so much worse, especially having to deal with his parents. Their grief is tremendous, you can't compete with them.

At work everyone walks on egg shells around you. You feel more fragile than usual. You feel if something jarred you just a bit you would crumble into dust, but your tears would fall on you like rain turning you into mud, making the floor a mess, just like your life. You are angry, because you don't understand life, and why these horrible things keep happening to you. You would have been a little happy with Ryan. Yes, it would have been a little forced, but it would have been normalcy and consistency and he cared and loved you more than you had seen in a long time. And you need that.

The wake and the funeral are a blur of black and rain. You don't know who at the time, but someone was guiding you for days - making sure you slept (with the aid of drugs), ate, showered, dressed, showed up at the funeral events at the right time and the right place. You are in shock. You are living in your mind, and the curtains are pulled tight and you feel truly alone. You find out later, that for the most part, House was taking care of you. You're surprised, but you're too numb to feel that or to react to it. You find out from a friend, Ryan's parents are offended, because House was your mouth too because you couldn't speak, and they didn't understand your relationship with him (you don't either). You don't care. You don't have to have a relationship with them anymore. Three days after the funeral Ryan's mother demands your engagement ring back. House defends your solitaire and says that you don't have to return a gift, particularly one that's not a heirloom (it wasn't). You don't care. You think he thinks that this "token of promise and love" will be important to you. Later on, his foresight is impressive.

You are shaken by Ryan's mother demand, and sink further into depression. You don't work for weeks. You don't eat, shower, sleep. You lay on the couch staring into space. Your co-workers take turns coming by to check on you, bringing you food, trying to get you to eat a bit. House stays with you at night. First falling asleep in the arm chair, but then finding that ridiculous. He brings you to your bed and lays down next to you. He's worried about you, and has voiced it. He's afraid you're going to hurt yourself. One day a nurse shows up to spend the day with you. You know now that this is bad and that you need to do something to help yourself, at least for his sake. You're worrying him so bad, he has the nurse check in with him every hour. You shower and call him from the phone in the bedroom. Sitting in your towel, your wet hair dripping down your shoulders you tell him you'll start seeing a shrink. But you know you need to get your shit together, because you can't go on living like this, because it's just not living. Your face is wet, you're sure it's from your hair.

You're mother always told you things happen for a reason. Shortly after you start seeing the shrink, you go back to work and you're functioning a bit. It's good. But life happens. You find out that you're six weeks pregnant, and the tragedy really begins.

END PT 1


	2. Chapter 2

Title: **Tragic - PT 2  
**Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 2 is for transition.

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

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You're in shock. You don't know what to do. Once upon a time you wanted a child desperately. You wanted your dying husband's child, but perhaps for the wrong reasons, to hold onto him, to keep a piece of him in this world so you wouldn't be alone, so you would have someone warm to hug, and hold close to you. A small being who's heart you could feel beating when you held them tight to your chest and who's scent you could smell when you snuggled your nose into their neck. That was a comfort that you craved. Especially at night when you were alone, tossing and turning under your blankets, crying yourself to sleep out of loneliness. You feeling black inside, you shut your eyes as hard as you can, maybe that will block out the internal screaming. (Hopeful wishing).

You don't tell anyone. You start getting sick in the morning. You can't keep breakfast down. Every morning you have to excuse yourself from the whiteboard meetings to run to the bathroom. After the fourth morning, House corners you in the women's bathroom, finding you with your head against the cool tile of the floor, waiting for the nausea to subside. He accuses you of being in denial. You know you're in confusion. He helps you up (he never helps anyone), and guides you down to the clinic and performs an ultra sound for a confirmation you already know. He assumes you're going to keep the baby, because of a conversation you once had about life. You know he's probably right, but you've barely been functioning so you don't know what to do. You can't look at him. You just started to be able to fall asleep by yourself and sleep through the night without him being near, you finally started to not feel so numb, and you are completely overwhelmed (again), you feel like you're going to choke. You can't look at him, because his eyes are always volumes of words, and you can't deal with that, despite what they tell you. You tidy up your clothes and head back to your office, leaving House standing there holding the wand and a prescription for prenatal vitamins in his hands. You find the vitamins on your desk later.

You know you're going to keep this baby. This isn't exactly the way you wanted to do it, but what can you do now? You found a ledge of light, and you are peacefully perched on it. You think you should let Ryan's parents know. Maybe it will make them happy that they'll be grandparents, that some part of their child will be living on. You are wrong. Really wrong.

Two days after you call them, you are served with court papers at work. They're suing you. They want you to abort the baby, stating that you are unfit to be a mother and claiming that their son did not want children, that they have proof of that, they have no proof the child is really Ryan's, and that you're using this child to claim the life insurance money that they received from the accident. Did they know their son at all? You are appalled and shocked by their gall. You know their grief is immense, but this is ridiculous. You start shaking when you read the legal forms, Foreman helps you to a chair and Chase runs to get something to help calm you a bit. House calls Stacey. You don't even care that he does this because you are so sickened by the fact they are doing this and that some lawyer thinks they have a case. You have fallen off your perch. There is no more light.

You begin to downward spiral again. You miss your appointment with the shrink. You forget to go to the OBGYN for your checkup. You start oversleeping and are late for work every day. Your dreams are filled with darkness and screaming. You fear that they're going to take away the one thing, the one being, in the world that will belong to you. One day you wake up and it's five o'clock in the evening. You slept the whole day away, but you feel exhausted. You think it's the pregnancy, but you haven't felt like yourself in so long you're not quite sure who you are anymore. The blinking light on the answering machine catches your eye, you never heard the phone ring. You count eight messages. You don't listen to them.

An hour later the knock at the door announces the arrival of House, Cuddy and Wilson who have been trying to call you all day. House jokes that he at least expected to find you surrounded by pints of Ben & Jerry's, watching chick flicks, listening to Sarah McLaughlin and just crying your eyes out from hormones. You realize you haven't eaten today. They're concerned. Cuddy packs an overnight bag for you, and takes you to her home that evening. In the morning, she tells you she's bringing you in for a check up with your OBGYN. During the car ride, she says that Wilson felt that they both had to go with House to check on you because he was freaking out House style and he didn't know what kind of condition he was going to find you in. He's worried about your baby too. You don't need to know this right now. You know she's trying to be helpful in her own way. She asks the doctor to write a letter for Stacey saying the stress of this case is affecting the health of you and your unborn child.

You are really not too coherent, you're in a cloud. You really should be _on_ a cloud. You're barely functioning at work, you don't know why House keeps you on, you don't bring anything to the table. You work in the lab most of the time, you can't deal with the patients anymore, you can't deal with anyone else's emotions at all. He's taken over your schedule, and you've let him. Your brain has just about shut down, you're on autopilot. He ferries you to your doctor's appointments, you ask him to come in with you. He's more excited than you are (though feigns otherwise) when you hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time. He works with Stacey on your case. You feel like a third party observer, like it's their baby they're fighting for, you feel so detached. Right now, you don't even want him.

You have to go to court. Stacey coaches you on your testimony. Thankfully, you haven't felt much like talking so you are able to keep your answers short and sweet. Though you have no great love of her, you are _grateful_ for Stacey's help. You avoid looking at Ryan's parents. They have ruined whatever happiness you could have taken out of this situation. You find yourself thinking about Ryan and wondering what life would have been like with him. You can't see it, but honestly, you really couldn't see the future before either. You are filled with hatred for them, and you've never hated before. You're afraid this blackness within you will hurt the baby.

Though it is a no-brainer, you are still surprised when you win the case. The judge rules that money from the accident be put in trust for the baby and is to be overseen by an impartial party. You will have full custody of the child, unless otherwise deemed unfit at a later time. Everyone is happy for you. You are still sad. You always knew you would be a good parent. Now you feel unsure. As you leave the courtroom, you run to the bathroom to throw up. Your morning sickness stopped weeks ago. You know at some point you'll have to do the right thing and let your child meet their grandparents, the people that tried to kill them.

The question is now, can you get any semblance of your life back on track?

END PT2


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Tragic - PT 3   
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 3 - can't keep rereading it.

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

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The next few months bring great changes and rebirth into your life. You start to feel blessed for the little things again. When you first feel the baby move, you are so overcome with emotion and love that you are choked up with tears. You thought your well of tears was empty, you discover that you have another kind of well, a better one. You just wish that you weren't alone in your apartment. The numbness is fading. You find another ledge to temporarily rest on.

The terms of the fellowships are coming to an end. Chase takes a position in California. Foreman a staff position in the hospital. You stay in Diagnostics, you can't imagine any more changes. Honestly, you're too attached to House, even if all you have now is an honest to god friendship, an odd friendship, but one that has become honest (so you think).

Foreman, Cuddy, Wilson, and House become your family. You love them (some more than others). They _have_ worried greatly about you, and you are tired of their pity. You always thought you were strong, though you faltered for a while. For some reason they feel the need to be your cheerleaders, you laugh at the idea of House with pompoms. They help you find a two-bedroom apartment, Wilson takes you shopping for a crib, Foreman for a car seat, Cuddy for baby clothes, and House for a stroller, of course it has to be the most high-tech stroller, but you don't care. You find yourself smiling again, and it feels good. 

House asks you if you want to find out the sex of the baby so you can paint your nursery. You don't want to. You'll paint it yellow, hopefully the sunny color will overtake any black that surrounded the baby in the womb. Your _family_ helps you paint the baby's room. They are overprotective of you, because you are pregnant and getting fat, and don't really let you paint anything at all. You cook them a dinner of thanks. It is a lovely meal that lasts late into the night, but leaves you and House still sitting at the dining room table long after everyone has gone. You're laughing, he's laughing. You're not even sure what you're talking about anymore, but you wish he would push the plates off the table (you insisted no one lift a finger) and fuck you right under the chandelier. You eye the fixture and think there's just enough clearance (and screw the plates, you can always buy more). He's changed a bit, mellowed, the fact that he laughing is evidence of it. The fact that he's here at you dinner table and enjoying himself (with you!) is another. You like seeing him throw his head back in a full belly laugh, but all you want to do is straddle his lap and run your tongue along his collar bone, up his neck to his ear and bite his lobe. Pregnancy hormones are getting the best of you.

You catch your breath. Your mind is not on the conversation. He notices. Asks if you're okay, if the baby is okay. You tell him you're fine, you just have a little cramp in your back and you need to walk around a bit (everyone lies). You start to gather up dishes and bring them to the kitchen. You wish he would leave now. He is never good at taking polite notice of things. As you stand at the sink, you suddenly jump as you feel his hands on what was your waist and your lower-back, and he starts to massage your tense muscles (wrong ones). "Better?" He questions. You want to melt against the counter, your knuckles turning white. Yes, barely a whisper. "Let me," he says. Let you what? you think, do anything you possibly want to my body, you want to raise an eyebrow. His hips nudge yours over and he turns the faucet on and dips his hands into the soapy water. Oh, to be that plate. . .

You go to the bathroom and rinse your face with cold water. What has become of your sense, you wonder? You look at yourself in the mirror and just are not sure who it is that you are looking at anymore. All you know is that you see a wanton woman, a cat in heat. You really should lie down. He needs to leave. Because you don't think he'll be what you need him to be, although you're not sure what that is anymore. You think about a cold shower. You're in the bathroom so long that when you return the dining room and kitchen are totally cleaned up and you are shocked. House is sitting on the couch, feet on coffee table, remote in hand, like he belongs there every day (he does). "You okay?" he asks. Fine, just tired. 

"Come sit with me a little," he says. Now you raise an eyebrow. (Who is this man? Where is House? He is being way.too.nice.)

"I'm not going to bite," he tells you. You fold your arms around yourself and sit on the couch. You are tired and achy (all kinds of achy). He takes your feet in his lap, and rubs them.

"I want to talk to you," he tells you. He turns off the television, you know he's serious now. Talking is never really his thing so you wonder what he's up to. You nod to him as an indication of green light, because you're not sure what kind of game this is.

He tells you that he's glad that you're doing better and that you are happier. You can tell that he is struggling with words, because he won't look at you. For some reason (probably Wilson) he must feel the need to tell you something. "I care about you. You . . . you mean a lot to me, and I just want you to know that," he glances at you quickly, you try to keep your expression as blank as possible because you don't know what this is about, and you're afraid you'll scare him away (you need him). He tells you that he's there for you whenever you need anything. Then he quickly gets up, kisses you on the forehead and exits stage left. You sit there in amazement. Not a word having left your mouth. You crawl over to the other side of the couch where he was sitting, picking up the pillow his head was propped up with. You crush it in your arms and inhale his scent, tears fall on the pillow as you fall asleep.

Monday, Stacey comes to see you. You're much more civil to her then you were a year or so ago, especially since she won your case, you feel indebted to her (not a feeling you like). She tells you that Lisa wanted her to talk to you. About a will, a living will and a medical proxy, because you have no family, you will need to appoint someone. You are told to think about it, and she will help you have papers drawn up that will be in your best interest and in the best interest of the baby. You didn't have that foresight, you wish you had. You tell her you will come by soon and let her know who it will be (though you both know who it will be).

You go to see House. You tell him that you want him to make your medical decisions if anything goes wrong. He doesn't look at you, you see him swallow hard. You tell him you want him to make the choices for your child should anything happen to you. He says nothing. He lifts his head, you look into his eyes, your gazes lock. He looks scared momentarily, but nods okay. This is a grim moment, and you have asked (more than) a lot from him and he has agreed. There is a chance he will be connected to you for life. There's a chance that he could possibly raise your child, and he has accepted. You couldn't have been more blatant in telling him how much you want him in your life; he didn't back down.

You knock on Stacey's door. You tell her House will be your proxy (ironic) and the guardian of all other details. (It's your way of telling her you trust him more than she ever did and you're not even sleeping with him. Right now, House would be proud of how smug you're feeling.) She nods and says she'll come by with the papers when they're ready to be signed.

You start walking around blissfully pregnant. You're feeling fat, the baby is kicking up a storm, you're happy. Again. The light in your soul is a little brighter. House is no longer just your boss, but you don't what he is. He's been changing, Wilson points it out to you (he doesn't have to) and you don't try to figure out why. He tells you because House started to take care of someone else for a change. You try not to think about what that means, because whatever it is you two have right now, you're okay with it. You don't want him to go away, and people tend to leave your life a little too often. You realize House is right, you are damaged, more than he is.

You are signing charts at the nurse's station. You finally started seeing patients again. You hear Stacey ask House what the hell does he think he's doing? That it is potentially a lot of responsibility, and he agreed to it. What was he thinking? You freeze. You feel bile in your throat. Hatred for her? Or fear of his response? He tells her it's none of her damn business, not anymore. She's just the lawyer, file the fucking papers and leave it alone. You hear him stump-stalk away. Your stomach is in your throat, but you try to convince yourself that the baby is just getting too big and pressing everything in funny ways.

You pull an old-Cameron move and hide the rest of the day in the lab (you're not allowed to work in the clinic at this stage of your pregnancy, House's orders). You are glad there is money in your lab coat pocket. You know you're not thinking clearly, but you decide to walk home. If it gets to be too much, you'll take the bus. You leave your car, purse and keys in your office, you don't go back there. Yes, your head is not always logical, you've often been a fool in your life anyway. You are glad that your neighbor Mrs. Kelly is home, she invites you in for tea. She thinks you're lovely (she doesn't know the truth), and keeps you company until the super shows up with the spare key.

You go into the bathroom and run the tub, filling it with lukewarm water and bubbles. You eye the tub cautiously as you attempt to lower yourself into the water. Once in, you have no idea how you're getting out, but you don't care. The warm water feels good against your skin, rinsing over you, washing your day away. You start to drift away, the early evening sun filling your bathroom, warming it. . .

You are suddenly shocked awake when the bathroom door flies open and the light flicked on. House is standing there, a look on his face that you don't recognize. You are confused. "Cameron! Where the hell have you been?" he screams at you.

Sorry, you mutter, you explain you decided to walk home. Suddenly you realize how naked you are. You cover your breasts with your arm.

"You've had me worried sick!"

He sighs, closes the toilet lid and sits down. "Nice tits." You smile. He laughs.

He helps you out of the tub, and hands you a towel. He doesn't look at you. Suddenly you hate your big fat body. He waits for you in the living you. You tell him (lie to him) that you needed some fresh air and took a little walk, and just found yourself almost home, so you just kept going. He looks at you in disbelief. He gets up, puts your kettle on (he makes himself very well at home in _your home_), picks up the phone and orders chinese, already knowing what your favorites are. He tells you that you exasperate him. That you're getting too close to labor to do things like this, just to please tell him when you need a walkabout or something. When he couldn't find you, and your car was in the garage still, he took the liberty of fishing through your purse for your keys. He tells you that he'll pick you up tomorrow morning. You tell him you can take the bus. His glare tells you it's a futile argument. He tells you he's making a spare of your house key for emergencies.

The kettle whistles, you excuse yourself to your room to get dressed, as he busies himself in your kitchen with mugs and tea bags. You lay down on your bed in your robe and cry. You think he cares more about the baby than anything else. You rub your belly hoping that you will be a good mother and your _child_ will love you, because you deserve that. You fall asleep. What you don't is House is standing in your doorway watching you sob. He pulls a cover over you and wipes a tear off your face with his thumb. He sits on the edge of your bed, his back against the headboard, one hand stroking your belly, the other stroking your hair the way your mom used to when you were a little girl to calm you down. You actually awake rested.

You find a note on your nightstand. It tells you that you are taking the day off. House is going by the office to pickup your coat and purse, and he'll be by around ten. He's taking the day off with you. He signs his name Greg, and he makes the "G" overly loopy. You smile. The post script at the bottom tells you that you're both going to do something fun today.

You're moving on. You're progressing (sometimes). You still have no idea what you're doing, but you started realizing a while ago that if you make a roadmap for life it is usually obsolete by the time you get to those roads. There are lots of new highways and routes, and it can get confusing. You just have to find a new path.

END PT3


	4. Chapter 4

Title: **Tragic - PT 4  
**Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 4 - Still not sure where it's going yet... Had real trouble with this chapter (sigh, should have never stopped the other day, feel like I lost my rhythm.)

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

xxxxxxx

Your child decides to choose the middle of the night to wake you to announce their impending arrival. You get up and debate whether or not to wake House. You dress and sit by the phone. The baby isn't rushing you along yet. Because you've been doing so well, part of you wants to show him that you can handle this all by yourself. The other part of you knows that he would be upset (secretly) if you didn't call him, because you know that he's excited about the birth of this child. You loved the look on his face the first time you took his hand and placed it on your belly so he could feel the kicking. You resisted folding yourself into his arms, though you longed to do so. You call and wake him up. He seems to be waiting for your call. You insist on driving yourself and meeting him there.

You're pacing around when he comes House-running into your room. _You_ adore him. He shows up in I-just-got-out-bed-scruffiness and pajamas that are so sexy, you're wondering if you could coerce him into sex before the labor really gets going, maybe it will help move things along, think? (Where is your mind at times?) You laugh at yourself for your thoughts. He thinks you're laughing at him because of this pj's and snarks at you because he's doing something _nice_. You want to kiss him for it. Instead you allow him to feed you ice chips.

He's behaving like an expectant father and you're worried that he has a camcorder tucked away somewhere. He jokes with you that maybe the spicy food for lunch yesterday did the trick, since you were getting really tired of being pregnant. You smile at his excitement, but you worry that he'll later start to berate the doctor and the nurses too much (and they're still a little confused at his presence, especially as Ryan was _also_ a doctor at PPTH, and his death affected others besides you. So the birth of your child is to be a happy note for others as well). He also better maintain his _position_ and stay up by your head and not interfere, or you'll kill him with own cane. Besides, he's never been intimate with the lower half of your body and you think you're doing enough sharing right now.

Your daughter makes a nice easy entrance into this world. (You deserve something easy for once.) Your OBGYN asks House if he wants to cut the umbilical cord. He looks to you, and you nod to him okay. Somewhere, in a tiny speck of light in your soul, you know he will be connected with you and your child forever. (You better not tell him that, he'll be running faster than he did pre-limp.) It's just the gut reaction you have when you see the doctor hand him your daughter and House brings her to you. You are full of tears to see her here healthy and crying, and she distracts you enough that you don't notice him shaking when he hands you the brand new little bundle. Nor do you take notice of the gamut of emotions that are running through his eyes. It's better that way, because you don't have in your possession the dictionary for all of their meanings.

You're crying, she's crying. You're smiling through your tears, and for the first time in months you feel the ray of light shine briefly through you as a little hand reaches up and scratches your face with her little nails. You count her ten little fingers and ten little toes, and examine every part of her to make sure she is okay and perfect and undamaged (like you are not). You are exhausted, but so happy that she's here, it doesn't matter. You want to drift off to sleep, the nurse comes to take the baby away, and you are suddenly in a nightmare. You beg her to leave her with you, she insists you must rest. House takes over the situation and persuades the nurse to leave the child in your room with you and him and he'll keep an eye on her. With a lifted eyebrow, she agrees. You are able to rest.

You awaken feeling like you've been hit by a fourteen wheeler or something large of that nature. House sits in the glider with your child cradled in his arms feeding her a bottle. Hi, you smile to them. "Mommy awakes!" he mocks you and quickly starts to move to hand you the baby.

You comment to him he looks like he knows what he's doing there, as you accept your daughter from his warm embrace.

He looks away, shrugging, "You've been sleeping a long time. I wouldn't let them wake you. So you're little one and I learned how to use a bottle! Fun stuff I tell you!" You too are engrossed by your daughter to hear any more of what he is saying. You tuck away the image of him and your daughter for a later time.

Your daughter, your daughter. _Yours._ You keep repeating that to yourself. It awes you. She is yours. You feel raw with emotion. You just want to start crying. Again.

Knocks on the door inform you that Uncle Foreman is here for his first visit. House took the liberty to make some phone calls for you while you were sleeping. It makes you think about another phone call you think you need to make, because you always do the right thing. You and your baby receive more visitors bearing balloons and plants and you see House make his exit, way too many people. Wilson comes by with his boyish grin kissing you on the cheek. He asks to hold the baby, and "By the way, what are you naming her?"

You are frozen. You realize right then, there are so many things about having a child that you just refused to think about, mostly because you are alone and you're going be raising this child _alone_. Honestly, you never really wanted to think about how the hell you were going to do it. You just tried to pretend she was never going to be quite real, and now she's here and you have to put a name to her. One you have to decide all on your own. You are just overwhelmed by things you are going to have to do by yourself for her, and one of them is just being a parent. For too long you lived in a pregnant hormonal cloud and you didn't think, or you wouldn't allow yourself to think, outside the loneliness you felt because you didn't think you could function, now suddenly it's slapping you in the face. You didn't plan, you didn't talk about any of it. You are screwed. You gulp and reach for a glass of water, glad that the baby is not in your arms, because this situation is suddenly very very real and you are scared.

You decide to name your daughter Pearl after Ryan's grandmother that he adored. You figure you owe him that because you don't plan on giving her his last name, you feel like it will be too confusing for her as she gets older (that her name is different from yours). You give her your mother's name (Geraldine) for a middle name. In your mind's eye, you like the idea that she is a Pearl, because out of your darkness came a wonderful little being, like a little piece of sand that transforms into a pearl in the pressure of a clam. As scared as you are, you know that she is wonderful jewel.

You call Ryan's parents to tell them their grandchild has arrived. You haven't seen them or spoken to them since court, nor have they inquired after you or the health of the unborn baby. You call them for Ryan, you do this for him, and because it is the person you are. You hope that if they decide to visit, they behave, but you don't expect it.

They do come. They don't behave. First they complain about her last name. Then they ask why House is there, because he's obviously been spending a lot of time with you. He freaked when he found out you called them. He decided that he would be present if they showed, whether you liked it or not . . . for Pearl's sake. They claimed how could you be having an affair with another man when you just had their son's child! Your anger bursts. You are a volcano. You tell them you asked them to come here to see _their_ grandchild and spend time with her, not to criticize your relationship with your best friend who has helped you out more in the last nine months when they didn't even bother picking up the phone to call just to see how the pregnancy was going, never mind how you were doing. (House, please pick you jaw up off the ground.) You politely ask them to leave. If they want to see their grandchild, you will be happy to have your lawyer contact their lawyer for supervised visitation. You were hoping you wouldn't have to do that, but obviously you were mistaken. Their behavior here at the hospital has proven it. Thankfully they leave on that cue.

You are now more upset and frustrated. You are craving comfort. You'll be glad to go home. You'll be glad to be in the comfort of your own home. You'll be glad to bring your daughter home. So you think.

END PT4


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Tragic - PT 5  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't. Baby comes home.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 5 - Still letting my fingers taking me to wherever it might go ... Had trouble editing this chapter, posting, may edit again later..it just _feels_ really rough to me still (and a bit incomplete), but here goes! I hope you like it!  
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

xxxxxxx

You dress your daughter in a dress that Cuddy bought for her. It's very cute, with lots of ruffles and lace (like something Cuddy would wear but without the low-cut cleavage). You wrap her in a white blanket that arrived this morning with a note from Ryan's father. It was a blanket that Ryan's grandmother had knit for him when he was a baby, his parents thought that it would be nice if Pearl had it now. It is a lovely gesture, and you want to carry her home in it, even if it is a tad warm for October. You will be sure to take a picture of Pearl in the blanket today and send it to them. Despite the heated words and actions, you still feel you need to maintain some kind of relationship with them for Ryan's sake and Pearl's sake - after all, they are the only grandparents she has.

You are nervous about going home, your palms are sweaty, but you keep looking at the sweet face of your child and know that you must do this and be as strong as possible for her. House asked you last night what your plans are. You really don't know. You didn't know how to respond to him, and you were glad when Pearl woke up and the nurse came in because she wanted to talk you about breast feeding. House excused himself (wimp).

He did, however, insist he would drive you home today. He actually allows Wilson to drive his Vette and he succumbs himself to your old Honda that's been parked in the garage the last few days. He complains the whole way to your apartment. You tell him you didn't ask him to do this. He said he didn't want you to drive home alone with an infant. (Hello, did he install some windows in the fortress walls? Why didn't you notice the construction going on?). In fact, he mentions, you really need to consider a more reliable vehicle, especially for the Jersey winters, you know, something safer for the baby. (Inside you are giggling like mad at his concern). Pearl sleeps like the angel she is the whole ride home, while he rants about the safety (or lack there of) of your vehicle and how you should consider an all-wheel drive vehicle, or some crap like that . . . though you know you can't afford it, so like Pearl, you just let him rant, you don't feel like arguing with him. You're just thankful it's not raining and the roads are dry, because then you would have really heard about it.

Wilson and House help you into your apartment with plants and bags and baby. They seem hesitant about leaving you alone . . . with _your_ infant, but you insist because you're going to have to do this at some point. They leave, but not before throwing looks at each other that you don't want to try to decipher. You lean against the door as you shut it behind them, looking at the quiet bassinet in your living room and think to yourself, this is it baby.

Your first day is going okay. You're home about an hour when you turn the phone ringer off because people keep calling, and you're afraid it will keep waking Pearl. Foreman and Cuddy were kind enough to do a little food shopping for you and change your sheets, so you're sitting at your kitchen table writing thank you notes, when there is a knock on your door. You decide the phone calls and visitors wouldn't be so bad if you had some help (hello, a fucking partner! You're a bit angry), because you're tired already and it's only your first day home. It's House, why are you not surprised.

You open the door and admit with defeated shoulders and a wave into the living room. He comes in with a large duffle bag. What does he think he's doing? He explains, being your best buddy and all, he feels it is necessary to be here to help you out for a little while until you are more rested and Pearl gets into a little schedule and all. You look at him with disbelief. This time, it's his turn to tell you to pick your jaw off the ground, and he slams the door shut behind him, waking the baby. You sigh and rub your eyes. He throws his bag down, hangs his cane on the back of the couch and limps over to the bassinet and picks Pearl up, with a "Hello there munchkin." He settles onto the couch with her and you have a feeling that arguments may be futile and you would be creating a war that you have no artillery to fight. You ask him if he brought barrettes over so you can do each other's hair tonight. He smirks and says, no, but he did get walkie talkies with a fifteen-mile radius, so you can be in touch with him always, you know for emergencies and stuff. You just stare at him as he picks up the remote and finds some College Football to entertain himself. He starts talking to Pearl about the rivalry of the two teams playing, you retreat into the kitchen. You don't know what you're going to do with him.

About an hour later you're sitting in Pearl's room trying to breast feed her. It hasn't been going well. She's fussing greatly. House pops his head in, pretending to cover his eyes and stumble in. You're tired, you say enough with the shielding of the eyes. He stops, asks if you have any formula, because she seemed okay with a bottle at the hospital the times he fed her, and then he could help you out with the feedings. You are confused by his _helpful_ attitude and look at him like he has eight heads. He says he'll run out to the store and pick some up. Pearl screams bloody murder while he's gone, you can't get her to calm down, and she won't take your breast at all. You are trying everything and she just won't stop crying. You're about to start crying. You're relieved to hear the front door open and a rustle of bags. House comes back into the room with a warm bottle. You thank him. Pearl happily sucks on the bottle and he goes back to his game.

She falls asleep with the bottle in her mouth. Her little rosy lips pursed around the rubber nipple. You bring her back out to the living room and deposit her into her cradle. You collapse on the couch. House lowers the volume and looks at you. He suggests a nap for you. He'll wake you in a little while and take care of dinner and the baby's next feeding. You feel totally beaten, you agree. If you weren't so tired and sore, you would be more than shocked by his behavior, he's overdoing it by his standards. You crawl under your cool sheets. You worry about leaving Pearl, even if just for a little while, but you're exhausted and starting to feel black creep inside you.

When you awake it's dark. You stumble to the living room, House is sitting on the couch, Pearl cradled in his arms. He's feeding her a bottle and has a cloth across his shoulder. You stand in the doorway and wish you had a camera for this Kodak moment, because it's a sight to see this gruff man gently your handling your seven-pound little bundle. He's cooing to her between alternately yelling at the television. His socked feet are on your coffee table, and you watch him put the bottle down, and lay Pearl between his legs and touch her little hands and feet. When did you start trusting him so much? When did he start letting himself become softer around you? (Don't tell _him_ that.) He looks so at home here, you want him to be here always.

You sneak back to your room and find that camera. You just want that snapshot for your personal scrap book. You get it. After the flash goes off, he turns to you and gives you the look of death. "So you rise," he comments dryly.

Having fun? You smile and sit on the couch next to them.

He mock laughs at you and ignores your question. The doorbell rings, "Aha! Chinese!" he says and hands you Pearl. Evasive as always, even on the simple stuff.

You're tired. You realize you better get used to this. You and House are laying on the couch flipping channels and you have been drifting in and out of sleep. "Cameron, why don't you go to bed?" he pleads to you. You shrug, you tell him, you don't want to leave him up by himself. He claims the whole purpose of him being there is so you get some rest. You look at him and ask him, why is he really here? Because you are going to have to do this by yourself at some point, and some point real soon.

He sighs, and looks away from you, "Because Cameron, I don't think you know what you're doing yet. And I don't mean changing diapers and feedings. And I think you've been under a lot of stress and you don't have anyone to help you, so you have me."

You know you're tired when you asked him how you got him. He smirks and says he's not sure, but that he didn't like seeing you go into that dark place in the last few months. He quietly tells you that you took care of him at times when he never asked you to, when you some how quietly assumed so, and now he's here, isn't that what friend's are for? He looks are you briefly, his eyes two deep holes, and looks away. "Besides, your baby is really cute."

You want to cry. You get up and start walking toward the bedroom (if you weren't so tired, you might be looking for empty vicodin vials or empty bottles of booze, but you just drop it). You tell him if you just didn't give birth you'd give up the bed for the couch for him and his leg, but oh well. He can find linens in the closet in the hall, and by the way, how long does he plan on staying?

Three weeks. He stays three weeks. You guess that's what your mother or a mother-in-law would do for you if you had them. He takes a few days off from work. At first, he makes you a little crazy, but his presence does help, particularly at night. He helps you with the feedings as best as he can, because your still trying breast feeding. Pearl is a good baby and you're lucky. She been as good to you as an infant can be and she starts to adjust into some semblance of a schedule. You still feel really exhausted and overwhelmed, and House is quite helpful at "covering" for you with feedings and diaper changing and making sure you get some rest. He seems to operate on much less sleep than you could tolerate.

At the beginning of the third week, he goes back to work in the mornings. He's trying to wean you off him and his help. You take the three in the morning feeding, he's does the five o'clock before he goes to work. He comes back to your apartment around one, bringing you lunch. He takes the baby out in the carriage after lunch, although you're not particularly fond of the idea, but it's warm out, so you submit. It gives you chance to take a shower and write some bills. You have to admit it was a bit of an adjustment being home by yourself all day. The first morning, after he left for the hospital the apartment was so quiet. You watch Pearl sleep, counting each breath she takes. Watching her little eyes move as she dreams. You start to cry, you worry about how you are going to take care of her. Will you be able to keep her safe and healthy? Will you be a good mother? How are you going to do it by yourself? You started sobbing uncontrollably. She woke up and looked at you with awe. You just picked her up and held her tight in your arms, but you're afraid you're going to squeeze her too tight.

That night he asks you what you plan to do once your maternity leave is up. Nanny? Day-care? You're still trying to decide what's in the best interest for Pearl. You're starting to agonize over the decision and just leaving her home in general. You feel the clock ticking. You call Cuddy to find out how much vacation you have left. House tells you not to worry, he won't rush you back. But you know you still have to pay your bills, so you'll have to go back. You start to have problems sleeping.

House goes home. You are sure he misses his piano and his own bed. He's been a big sport and a huge help. Your gratitude is immense. Your apartment seems quiet and empty now. You even kind of miss the way he would leave the bathroom a mess with wet towels and it would make you crazy - even the toilet seat being up and all. Most of all, you miss walking into the kitchen and finding him sitting at the table eating cereal, with Pearl in one arm, spoon in the other, talking to her with his mouth half full. It was a joy in the morning to find them like that. You miss tiptoeing over to the couch after depositing Pearl's three o'clock bottle in the sink and tucking the blanket around him while he's sleeping; he always seemed a bit more peaceful when he was sleeping, just like a baby.

It seemed like the apartment was getting too small with his six foot plus body being there, now it feels empty and the baby's cries just echo more loudly to you. You're lonely. You sit on the sofa and try to put a happy thought in your head and laugh about how you both tried to give Pearl her first bath and got water all over the place. She was very happy in the warm water, which was a blessing. She started to smile that day. House took pictures with your camera. You can't wait to develop them.

He's home two nights, and calls you and wants you to come over for dinner with Pearl. You accept, because you do miss him, and you think she does too. You bring her in her little carrier, looking at her, you realize she's getting bigger every day, you wonder if he'll notice. You want to cry. He admits you to his townhouse and you enter a warm inviting aroma. He cooked?

"He did," he smiles (a rarity, but you like it). He tells you he has many hidden talents as he takes the carrier from your hands, putting it on the table and starts to take Pearl out. "Hello munchkin! How are you? Did you miss House? House missed you! Don't tell Mommy, she'll think I'm crazy!" you hear him whisper to her as he removes her little sweater. You stifle your smile as you remove your coat.

Dinner is wonderful and you are warm and happy and full. House fills you in on the latest case they are working on, and flippantly sends on messages and good tidings from coworkers to you. He gets you another glass of wine, it's okay, you stopped breast feeding this week, you just weren't producing enough milk, and it was too hard for you. He takes Pearl out of your arms and gives her a bottle as your nurse your glass of Merlot. You find yourself yawning out of exhaustion and because the wine is making you sleepy.

. . . you jolt awake. You are confused. And chilled, though you are covered by a thin blanket. You put a hand to your head in slight confusion and panic and look around. Pearl? You feel leather underneath you, see gold walls around you and a baby grand nearby. It comes back to you. You are at House's. Where is he? Where is your baby? You suddenly feel very guilty for falling asleep and forgetting about her and leaving him with the infant after he invited you over for dinner. You stand up unsteadily on cold wood floors. Where are your shoes? You don't remember taking them off.

You hear a murmur down the hall and see a light, you follow it. It's a television. You peak your head in the doorway. House is sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard, baby carrier next to him on the bed, bottle on nightstand, Conan on the television. Hi, you say.

"Hey," he looks at you. You go over to the other side of the bed to check on Pearl, who is fast asleep.

You tell him you're sorry you passed out on him like that, you're very embarrassed.

"No apologies necessary," he responds. "Pearl and I were just watching a little Conan."

You can see that, you smile.

He asks you if you feel okay.

You tell him that you are just exhausted.

He looks at you, that little line above the bridge of his nose all scrunched up. You tell him it's normal, just adjusting to the sleep schedule. Well, you better get going, it's late, dinner was wonderful. You reach out to grab Pearl's carrier, when he grabs your wrist. "Don't." You look at him. "It's late. I'll worry about you driving home this late." You're confused. "Just stay." He says as he pulls you onto the bed. "Just stay and rest and go home in the morning. Besides, why wake the baby now, and take her outside into the cold while she's peacefully sleeping and all?"

You're really just too tired and too confused to argue or to really even think. He pulls you next him, and places Pearl a little more toward the end of the king size bed. He puts a pillow next to him and pats it for you place your head. You obey. You scoot closer to him, and he puts his arm around you, pulling you tighter against his seated frame. Pulling a blanket up over the both of you, he starts stroking your hair. You put an arm across his legs, as your cheek presses up against his thigh. You sigh. You fall asleep to his fingers in his hair and Conan in the background.

END PT5


	6. Chapter 6

Title: **Tragic - PT 6  
**Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 6 - was a particularly difficult chapter to write...i think you'll see why, really struggled with it. (Sorry for the delay, we got flooded this last week, and I've been fighting migraines.)  
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

xxxxxxx

You are staring into a black hole. You see no light. You have been falling. You haven't been able to grab onto any ledges. You haven't reached the bottom yet, and you're not sure how much longer you will continue to fall. You hear echoes of sounds. Some noises you recognize and you respond to automatically with motions that are ingrained but detached, and lots of other things you ignore.

You had dinner with House about two weeks ago. You awoke in the morning to him leaving a cup of coffee on the nightstand and kissing you on the forehead. You were under his comforter still dressed in your jeans and sweater. He tells you he already gave Pearl a bottle, but he has to run. His patient isn't doing well, and he's been getting paged for the last hour. He tells you to stay as long as you want, and tells you how to lock the door behind yourself. He says, with a slight smile, that he was glad to see his girls last night and . . . interrupted by the pager again. Go, you tell him, and he goes. You lounge awkwardly in his large bed looking around his room, glancing at Pearl who is watching you with large eyes. You feel immensely lonely without him being there. You start to cry, you don't want to stay. You leave the hot coffee on the nightstand.

It's been cold out and you haven't been able to leave the apartment much. You think there was snow one day, but you have lost track of days. Your sleeping is erratic. You haven't spoken to another adult in you're not sure how long. House has been bombarded with cases and you really haven't talked to him since dinner at his place. Your loss of time hasn't helped either.

You aren't feeling well. You feel like you aren't parenting your daughter well already. You couldn't even breast feed her, what kind of mother are you? You feed her, change her, bathe her, rock her to sleep. Right now you feel an indifference to her and a guilt. Maybe Ryan's parents were right, you are unfit mother. You are afraid to hold her too long, but you are afraid that something will happen to her, so you sit and watch her for long periods of time. Sometimes you don't hear her crying. Sometimes you can't stop her crying, so you just cry with her and you hate yourself.

One day you don't hear the apartment door open. You are only slightly startled when you feel a hand on shoulder. You look up and it's House. You don't say anything. You continue staring at Pearl. House limps over to her and picks her up. You see him mouth something to you, but you have no idea what he is saying. He seems frustrated, he leaves the room with Pearl, and you just continue staring into open space, your chin sitting in your hands.

He comes back into Pearl's room where you are still sitting and lifts your chin in his hand. He looks at your eyes with a pen light and you try to pull away. He fingers a long tress of your hair, you pull it from his fingers, you haven't showered in days. He takes your hand and pulls your body to your feet and drags you to the kitchen pushing you into a chair. He opens the fridge and examines the empty shelves. He starts opening kitchen cabinets, leaving them open as he starts examining the shape of your pantry. You sit and watch him. You see him pick up your kitchen phone and punch in some numbers. You finally hear some words, "Cuddy, we have a problem."

You feel puzzled. You're not sure what's going on. Your eyes feel heavy. You feel heavy. You feel a black tornado inside you taking over and you are shutting down. House drags you into your bedroom. It's a disaster. Well, the whole apartment is a disaster, but you don't care. He tells you to lie down, and he pulls the covers over you. You ask where Pearl is. He tells she's in her pack-n-play in the living room. That satisfies you. He sits on the edge of the bed. "Where are your car keys?" he questions you. You tell him they are on a hook in the kitchen. He tells you that you need to rest, but he has to go back to the hospital. He's going to take Pearl with him, she will be okay. You start to cry. He needs to take your car because of the car seat. He'll be back in a little while and everything will be okay. You're not sure what that means, because you can't remember last time anything was okay. He asks you if you understand that Pearl will be with him. You nod. You don't really, but you're so tired, you close your eyes.

When he returns, it's dark. He didn't need to wake you, you are in bed staring into the dark. He's quiet. You ask him where Pearl is. He tells you that she's with Cuddy for the night. You look at him blankly, he thinks you're confused. He tells you need a break. He sits on the bed at your feet and asks you, "Are you hungry for dinner?" No. He looks angry. "When was the last time you ate?" You really don't remember. "Cameron," he sighs, "you're not taking care of yourself." You don't say anything. "I'm taking you to your doctor tomorrow for a checkup. We need to get you back on track." You tell him that _we_ don't need to do anything. He says nothing, but you know he's biting back some sarcastic remark by the way he instantly narrowed his eyes. "Cameron, you are going through postpartum depression, do you realize that?" You look at him. You are smarter than this. Why didn't you realize? There is a name to this thing - all these things that you are feeling and not feeling right now.

You run to the bathroom, because you are going to throw up. Since you have no food in your stomach, you throw up bile. You start sobbing uncontrollably. Hot tears pouring down over your cheeks. Your head is throbbing as you lay it against the cool porcelain, your arms still around the bowl. You keep failing at everything - love, marriage, lust, you can barely be a mother, a doctor, a friend, you're not even good at living.

House comes into the bathroom and steps over you. He turns on the faucet to the tub and starts filling it with water. You are still sobbing. "Stop it," he says, grabbing you under the arm and pulling you up. "God, you are ridiculously thin. For Christ's sake, you just gave birth to a baby, you're supposed to be fat," he says with a hiss as he pulls the sweatshirt over your head. You feel dirty and messy. Your hair is a greasy knot, your face is red and tear stained. Your clothes are dirty with baby-spit up and you've been wearing them for days. "You're a mess," he tells you, "you're taking a bath, even if I have to give it to you. So this is your choice now. Either you bathe yourself, or I'm going to do it for you and it won't be as pleasant as you might like." You start crying again (why can't you stop?).

"Jesus Cameron," he sighs, hanging his cane on the towel rack and stripping off his button down. He looks at you with determination, you are a chore. He slides your sweats a bit to your hips and forces you to sit on the toilet. He pulls off your socks and sweatpants tossing them onto the floor. He stands you up and turns you toward the tub. "Up," he roughly pulls your T-shirt over your head. He pauses. You feel his fingers unhook your bra and roughly pull it off and then his hand grab the back of your panties and slide them down your legs. Smack! A sudden slap on your bare ass jolts you. "In," he commands and you step into the hot water, sit, and pull your knees up to your chest.

He leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, the cool room starting to feel steamy, the mirror fogging up. You think he's leaving you alone to bathe. Suddenly, you feel cool air enter. You look up and see a washcloth being thrown in your direction. It hits you in the face. He has clean linens in his arms and in his left hand a plastic bucket, the kind they deliver wonton soup in. He sits on the toilet. (Haven't you done this before? Way too much nakedness in front of House with no sex involved, you think to yourself, there's something really wrong with that.) He reaches into the tub and submerges the bucket. He lifts the bucket full of water and swiftly dumps it over your head. House! Stop it! You tell him you can do this yourself. He questions you, "Oh really? Because it sure seems like you're doing a really good job of taking care of yourself lately." You tell him to get out. He ignores you. Then you yell it, he submits and leaves you to cry into your tub.

After you bathe, you dress yourself in clean clothes and find him in the kitchen at the stove. "I'm making something for you to eat," he tells you, "I stopped at the grocery store and picked up a few things for you." He drains pasta at the sink. You sit tiredly at the table. You ask him why he's doing this. He glances at you briefly. "Because you need to be a mama to Pearl." You pick at the food he places in front of you. "Cameron," he begins. You stop him, whatever it is he has to say, you really don't want to hear it right now, you appreciate what he's doing, but you really don't want to talk. He leaves you in the kitchen and goes and sits himself in front of the television.

The little bit of food you eat revives you. You walk into the living room and tell House you want Pearl here. He blankly says no. You start to yell at him, she's your daughter and you want her here, where she belongs. He looks up at you, an intensity in his eyes you haven't seen before, a different kind of intensity. "You gave me the power to take care of things for you and your baby if necessary. And I'm doing that right now . . . because it's necessary," he says. "Don't make me call the lawyer and get everyone involved. Right now, we need to get you better before anything . . . " You start crying . . . but she's your daughter . . . he tells you that he knows, and he knows that it's hurting you. "Cameron, come here." You sit next to him on the couch. "This sucks," he tells you, "all this shit that has been happening to you, it's a lot. What you are going through is normal, and happens to lots of other women, and we're going to take care of it. Tonight, you're going to let me take care of you. You showered, you ate, now, I'm going to make sure you get a full night of uninterrupted sleep and I'll take you to the doctor tomorrow. Then we'll go from there, okay?" You nod at him through tears, as he continues to do another non-House maneuver, and pulls you toward him in an awkward embrace. Although you're uncomfortable, you have been craving someone else's warmth.

You scoot down a bit, your head on his leg. He pulls a blanket over you that's on the back of the sofa. He starts doing that calming thing your mom used to do with your hair, stroking your long hair and lightly rubbing your scalp. It always soothed you. You do it to Pearl now when she cries, hoping it will soothe her. You think about her and start to cry again. He hands you a tissue. He tells you that he called Cuddy to check on Pearl, and she's fine. You nod. (It upsets you to think that more people know you're going crazy again.) You doze.

You are jostled slightly to House gently shaking you, "C'mon Cameron, let's get you into bed." Sleepily, you comply and start stumbling down the hallway. You are shocked by the cool of the sheets as you crawl your sleepy-warm body under the comforter. House starts tucking you into bed, he's telling you that your appointment isn't until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, so you can sleep-in a bit. As he reaches for your lamp, you grab his hand, stay, you plead with him, don't sleep on the couch tonight, stay.

"Okay,' he nods, 'I'll be right back." You watch the hallway and see shadows fade away as he begins to turn lights off. You see the bathroom light go on and hear the water run. You're trying to keep your eyes open, you're starting to drift. You feel movement on the bed, you open your eyes to blackness. You feel him climbing into bed next to you. You turn on your other side and snuggle up to him. He extends his arm, and you put your head on his shoulder, and your arm across your chest. You know in lots of ways you have a stranger in your bed, but you don't care, right now you need his warmth, it helps heal you. You fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart.

You awake to the smell of coffee. You are alone in bed. That disappoints you. More so than you thought it would. House enters your bedroom, fully dressed, carrying a steaming mug. "Oh good, you're awake." You smile weakly. "You're going to have to get moving soon, so that we don't miss your appointment." You nod, as you take the cup from his hands. For some reason, you feel cold and you feel dejected. Wait, you call out to him as he begins to leave you. You're not quite awake yet, so you're not really sure what you're doing. You beckon him to you. He sits at your hip looking at you with question in his face. You place your mug on your nightstand. You try to thank him for everything he has done and everything he is doing. He is shaking his head no, "No thanks necessary." You want to give him a hug, and as you reach for him, you kiss him lightly on the mouth. The quick spark you feel when your lips meet backfires on you, as he swiftly propels away from you, pushing your hands down to the bed. "No, Cameron," as he rises and stalks out of the room.

You are startled. You quickly rise. You dress while hot tears are burning down your face in embarrassment and shame. The ride to the hospital is heavy in silence. He walks you to your doctor's office, and says he'll wait for you. You quietly tell him he doesn't have to. He nods and stands to leave. "When you're done with your appointment come down to my office, Pearl will be there and I'll take you both home." You nod. He leaves you sitting there staring at your hands in your lap.

More and more you are taking painful steps by yourself. Steps you don't want to take. Even the things that seemed liked good things, haven't always been. The last eleven months or so have been riddled with them, such awkwardness. You thought you grew out of them. You thought you were strong again. You thought you were ready for all this. You were wrong about everything. What the hell happened?

END PT6


	7. Chapter 7

Title: **Tragic - PT 7**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 7 -I think I hit a bit of writer's block too (you'll see)...writing this PPD, and getting past it/through it is not easy! There are some parts that I need to get through for there to be more "action" so to speak. I hope you like it... and thanks for sticking with it.  
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress...

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It's approaching Christmas. The air is dry and cold, and the wind chills you to the bone. You buy Pearl her first Christmas stocking. You decide against a tree this year until Eric shows up at your door one night with a small fir three and a bag full of lights and decorations, claiming the baby's first Christmas must include a tree! He comes by the next day to take both of you to the mall to have Pearl's picture taken with Santa Claus. Pearl behaves like an angel and doesn't cry at all. The picture is sitting on your dresser.

The last few weeks have been a new healing process for you. You start seeing a new therapist, attend a local support group and hire a part-time nanny/babysitter to help you out. You are grateful to Cuddy, who points you in the right direction and gives you a list of resources that have helped guide you along. You decide that you need to realign your priorities, and though it's difficult, you know you have to do the best thing for your daughter and your health.

After your little breakdown (as you like to call it), you stay at Cuddy's for a few days. She hires a nurse to help with the baby while you get a little rest and start to heal again. You are grateful for her offer and decide this is the best route to take at the time. She is very businesslike and her guidance is helpful and keeps you on track. Without House around as much, you are able to keep your emotions in check. You decide being around him wasn't doing you any good. You try to block out the conversation you overheard between him and Wilson at the hospital, but it haunts you like a bad nightmare. After hearing that conversation, you hightailed it to Cuddy's office in tears, where she presented you with the additional information you needed and an open door to her home. You quickly accepted.

You remember leaving your doctor's office feeling a little bit more hopeful than you had been feeling, yet still apprehensive and very sad. Prescription in hand, you headed toward the Diagnostic Department to see your child and get your ride home. You were still feeling embarrassed by your blocked kiss in the morning, and by House taking over and taking care of you. You entered through the conference room, the blinds to his office drawn, the door open. You glance briefly around the room, the familiar space feeling so different to you in such a short time. You hear House and Wilson talking as you approach the door. You weren't trying to spy, but when you heard the voices rise you just stopped dead in your tracks.

You hear Wilson ask House what the hell is he doing? (A question he keeps getting asked, you think.) "Feeding Pearl," House replies. "Because she was so hungry!" he almost baby-speaks. (No wonder he had the blinds shut. Feeding a baby might just ruin his reputation.)

"House, you can't keep doing this." (No reply from House, standard House you think.) "House," Wilson growls. "House, listen to me. I'm serious. Whatever this little game that you're playing - with yourself - for god's sake needs to stop, there's too many other people and emotions involved."

"Wilson, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about Allison and Pearl."

"What about them?"

Wilson sighs. You hear Wilson sit and lower his voice, you strain to hear his words. "Allison is going through an emotional hell. Just a few short months ago, she loses the man she was going to marry and spend the rest of her life with. She finds out she's pregnant with his child, she gets sued, she's alone and grieving. Here you are playing your little games of being there, but not being there, but maybe there, and maybe being interested in playing daddy to her little girl, which is shocking the hell out of us. Don't you think you're fucking with her head a little? WE all know how she has felt about you in the past, and she has depended on you so much. And we all know how you feel about her, but will never admit to yourself, let alone her --"

"Wilson, again, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here helping to make sure my young doctor gets back on her feet, so she gets her little ass back in here by the first of the year. I also want to make sure she doesn't hurt this baby, since she kind of put me in charge of looking out for little Pearl in case of emergencies. And even though I didn't want to, I took it on. So my main concern is for Pearl's well-being and making sure I have a fully functioning and well-oiled staff. I can't have a barely functioning, crying-all-the-time-Cameron who can't do her job. It's going to be bad enough with her running back and forth with Pearl and being a mom and all, let alone trying to function as a doctor."

You hear Wilson start to respond to him in a biting tone, but Pearl starts to cry, and you take the opportunity to turn on your feet and head to Lisa's office. Since that moment, you have tried to keep some distance between you and House. Thinking about him, and what he said, even if he was pulling his own motto (everybody lies), just makes your black hole seem wider and deeper, and you can't handle that -- the real truth or the real lies, not anymore.

You choose a new therapist, not associated with the hospital. For the first time, you are brutally honest with yourself and with someone else about how you really feel about things - though it takes you weeks to get to this point. Especially about House. It isn't easy. You feel shame for the closeness you were feeling with him, the comfort that you felt was growing between you two, the intimacy you thought he somewhat shared with you and with Pearl. You hate that in your sleepy state it seemed natural to kiss him. You hate that he has seen you naked, put you in a bath and has put you to bed, that he took care of you, seen you in a weaken state - again. You try to block out the connection you felt with him especially during the birth of your child. You try to block out the images of him with your baby.

You are glad that your time is being scheduled and occupied like boot camp. Your nanny arrives early, so you can exercise and eat and shower. It's been good for you to be running again, to get those endorphins rolling. You fill your late mornings and early afternoons with doctors' appointments, therapy and support groups. Twice a week, you take Pearl to "Mommy and Me," which has been good for both of you, and she seems to like it - as young as she is. You hire a cleaning service to help you with the apartment, because you realize you just can't do it all. Pearl is finally starting to sleep better and only wakes once during the night. You are sleeping better and feeling better. Your interaction with the other mothers is helping, so is their support. The occasional lunch with Lisa or Eric or even Wilson is helpful. They try to be as supportive and helpful as possible, but you still feel like you have already asked too much of them, you have to figure this out on your own (a whole other therapy issue you're working on. One of many.).

You dislike the holidays. It was easier when you were working, because you didn't mind working those days, then you didn't have to be alone. You know you're not alone now, you have Pearl, but you can't exactly have an adult conversation with her. She's not here to take care of you, you're supposed to be taking care of her. Thankfully, you get an email from Chase in California inviting you for a week's visit over Thanksgiving. You decide to jump on it and take a little break from the cool weather of NJ and visit LA for a few days. You know you shouldn't be breaking your schedule yet, but you don't want to sit in your apartment alone. You know Jim and Julie Wilson will invite you over for Thanksgiving dinner, but you're not sure what kind of drama you might face there, including House, and you have been relatively successful in avoiding him.

Your trip to LA goes well. You relax a bit, and enjoy the warmer weather. Pearl is good on the flight, and her sleeping schedule doesn't get too messed up, so that's good. You are glad that Robert's girlfriend is a sweetheart; because she keeps you company and you have a great time with her. You forget what it is like to be a girl, and do those girly things like go get manicures for the hell of it. (Chase actually baby-sits!)

You are getting ready for a Thanksgiving dinner party with some of Chase's colleagues when your cell phone starts to ring. Your new motherly instinct has you picking up the phone, but you hesitate and don't answer it when you see it's House calling. Not fifteen minutes later, it's ringing again. You still don't answer. And then again fifteen minutes later. It's getting ridiculous. You answer. He's wondering where the hell you are as he growls into the phone. You take a deep breath because you are really annoyed. He's standing outside the door to your apartment (by the way, you had the locks changed he noticed), knocking so loud, that Mrs. Kelly came out to see what was going on. You tell him you're in California. He's quiet. He asks if you have Pearl with you. You smirk. Of course you do, you tell him, what kind of question is that? He tells you he went to your apartment to see if you and Pearl wanted to have some turkey and watch some football. You tell him he should call first. He said he tried to. He asks why you didn't tell him you were going to California. You tell him you don't have to run everything by him, he's not your keeper. As some snarky comment starts to creep out of his mouth, you snap your cell phone shut. You don't want him to ruin your day. You power down the phone.

You return to New Jersey feeling a bit refreshed. While in California, you learn that Chase has perfected the art of networking. His Thanksgiving dinner included some well-known names in the medical field, and you were quite happy to be acquainted with them. You feel like an adult again. Very few were married or had children, so Pearl was passed around all night, she was loving it. You jump right back into your routine, but now you have more energy and you are feeling more confident. You send Chase and his girlfriend and a thank you note, and you store some the business cards you acquired in your computer for future reference.

You did return to five messages from House on your answering machine. You delete them all. You are tired of him being more interested in your child (lovely child that she is and all) than you. No more games. You did this with him before you met Ryan, and it wore you out. You remember it clearly. You don't need to do this to yourself again. Besides, you have someone more important to take care of now.

The week after Thanksgiving, House leaves a businesslike message on your answering machine regarding your maternity leave. Your maternity leave, and also left-over vacation days, will be ending. He would like to know your return-to-work date, if you plan on still getting paid. Asshole, you think to yourself. You call Cuddy and make sure you have all the details correct. You settle on after the New Year. Cuddy will relay the message for you.

With Christmas quickly approaching, you try to keep yourself occupied so your mind is not on overdrive and you don't feel too lonely. Pearl is getting bigger every day, and you are enjoying her so much now. You wish it was warmer out so you can take her out in the stroller more. You invest in one of those runner-strollers, and look forward to using it as soon as the first thaw. She is keeping you plenty occupied, and you are awed by her every day, watching her grow, her big eyes seeing the world for the first time, her dark hair growing, her fingers finding new things to touch. You love all these moments with her. You just love being with her and breathing her in, and you feel lucky that she is a happy baby, so lucky.

One evening you get a call from Ryan's parents asking how you are. You chat with them briefly and fill them in on how Pearl is. You have been good about keeping them updated about her growth and you send them pictures regularly. It's just not in you to be a hateful and spiteful person. Things have been much more amicable and it's a relief to you. They invite you over for Christmas. They sound sad. It will be the first Christmas without their son. You accept their invitation. You will go stay with them for a few days and let them lavish gifts and attention on their granddaughter. Maybe it will make them happy. You won't have to think about what you'll do for Christmas. And you won't be alone.

You enjoy yourself with Ryan's parents. There is a first time for everything. They live in farmland, so visiting them is like taking a trip to the country and living in a Christmas tale. They're very sweet to you, you're not sure why, but you play along. Pearl loves Ryan's father, always laughing at him when he goes to tickle her. You think she has a thing for bald headed men, she's always smiling at them. She's still so small, but she seems to be advancing so quickly. Ryan's parents seem aglow with Pearl around, their faces all pink and cheery. They dote on her and keep picking out features of hers that Ryan had when he was a child.

You feel a bit at home in their house. Ryan's mother is cooking up a storm, and the house is full of wonderful baking aromas. She won't let you help in the kitchen, but you keep her company, and that seems good enough. There is always a fire going in the fireplace, and the dogs just love to lie in front of it. Part of you feels like you're in a dream, it's the kind of home you always wanted. You can't figure out what happened all those months ago, but you try not to boggle your mind too much about it. You are doing this for your daughter, for Ryan, and Ryan's parents.

On Christmas Eve, before you go to bed, Ryan's mother hands you a little tissue wrapped package tied with a bow. She tells you it's a little tradition that they do every year. You open it and it's matching flannel pajamas for you and Pearl, and slippers for you. She tells you every year, everyone always got new Christmas pajamas. You give her a hug. You get Pearl ready for bed in her new red and green plaid pj's. Then you put yours on and slip between the cool sheets. Your mind is in a hundred places. You are watching to moon through the window panes, and you think of Ryan. Last Christmas you had to work. The day after he took you away for a long weekend to go skiing in Vermont. You remember he had new flannel pajamas in his duffel bag. You smile thinking about it. He was such a good soul. (You laugh to yourself, he did put up with you after all, didn't he?) Your mind drifts to House. You wonder what he's doing. Probably the same thing he's always doing - vicodin, scotch, piano, work, game boy, yo-yo, bother Wilson, snark, work, watch General Hospital, work, annoy Cuddy, avoid Clinic. What else was there in his life? He doesn't make room for anything else, you think. You still feel a pang in your stomach when you think about him, so you try not to, especially because it is so one-sided, and you just can't take that anymore. You squeeze your eyes shut, and do some calming breathing exercises. It helps you relax and fall asleep.

You awake in the morning to the smell of pancakes and maple syrup. There is a light dusting of snow on the ground. You slept like a log. Pearl is gone. She must of been fussing, and Ryan's parents came in and got her. You stroll into the kitchen and find Emily and Charles (Ryan's parents) seated at the table feeding Pearl. They greet you happily, wishing you a Merry Christmas. They didn't want to wake you and thought you wouldn't mind the extra sleep. You join them at the breakfast table, happy to see them all, and greedily dig into the plate of pancakes placed in front of you.

You have a relaxing and nice day. Emily and Charles lavish Pearl with Christmas gifts galore . . . more than she could possibly need. They are kind to you, Emily giving you a lovely cashmere sweater, and Charles an emergency roadside car kit. They give you a photo album they put together of pictures of Ryan from when he was a child through college so Pearl can have it one day. It was a sweet gesture. You take lots of pictures of them and Pearl, and you love looking at their faces with her. You are glad you made the decision to come for a visit.

Your return to Princeton a few days after Christmas is a little bittersweet. One, because Emily and Charles took to doting on you as well as Pearl, and two, you were enjoying it. Two, New Years' Eve is quickly approaching. And three, you will return to work soon. Too soon.

Unloading the car with a baby and bags and gifts is always a task. Especially when you live in an apartment and you don't have anyone to help you. What can be worse than having your hands full, and not seeing two boxes in front of your door, which you end up tripping over as you carry your daughter over the threshold? Thankfully, you are able to fall on your side, and Pearl is safely cradled in your arms. You didn't drop her, you didn't fall on her, she's just crying from being startled. Oh baby, you coo to her, as you choke back your own tears, happy that she's not hurt, sad that she could have gotten hurt, sore from the pain shooting up your leg, and angry that you didn't see the two boxes, which you are now kicking inside with your boot.

You calm Pearl down. You feed her and put her down for a nap. When you come back into the living room you eye up the two slightly stomped on boxes. They're just two regular looking shirt boxes wrapped in Christmas paper, little snowflakes and snowmen dancing across a baby blue background. One is addressed to you, one to Pearl. Written across your package with black marker is a message. "_Came by to drop off some gifts. You're not here. Again. Have a merry. GH_." You slide them under your coffee table; you don't want to deal with these gifts tonight. The gifts that made you fall and almost hurt your child. No thanks.

You awaken very early in morning by a sore and throbbing leg, and a nasty bruise running up and down your right side. You make a cup of hot cocoa and snuggle into your couch. You eye the boxes under the coffee table and sigh. Slowly you unwrap the first box. There is a pretty red scarf, soft and surprising. You think it will go nicely with your winter coat. An odd gesture, but you push the thought aside, and continue looking in the box. There is a book, you lift it up, "The Single Mother's Survival Guide." You don't know if you want to laugh, cry, do both, or go find House and kick him. You see a small little jewelry looking box. You gently open it to find a small oval silver locket with the letter "A" monogrammed on it. You open it and find a little picture of Pearl. You draw your breath in. He shouldn't have done this. (Why did he?) You lean back on the couch, fingering the necklace. You wonder if you should call him. You know you have been avoiding him for a few weeks; you have not talked since the night he came by and put you in the bath. You wonder if Pearl realizes he's not been around.

You reach over and pick up the other box. You feel a little guilty opening your daughter's present, but what the hell, she's only eleven weeks old. You pull out a onesy-with the logo "Got Milk" stamped on the front and let out a laugh. There are a bunch of Baby Einstein DVD's and CD's - Mozart, Beethoven, Bach . . . he was obviously going for the music route. There is another little box. Inside you find a silver plated yo-yo. Pearl's name engraved across the round toy. You are palming the yo-yo trying to decide how to handle these unexpected gifts, this gesture from House you don't know how to comprehend, when you hear Pearl start to fuss and you get up, abandoning gifts and all thoughts, to tend to her.

Your last few days off you spend lots of time playing with Pearl. You try to compose a thank you note to House, but you just don't know what to say. You get an unexpected phone call and take a trip to Manhattan, leaving Pearl with a sitter for the day. You hate to have to do that, but later find it to be a good call and a worthwhile trip. Cuddy calls and asks if you are ready to go back to work, you realize you are nervous, don't want to leave your daughter home, but you're about as ready as you're ever going to be. Wilson calls to see how you're doing, asks how the holiday was, wants to make plans to see you, wants to talk about House. You deflect most of his questions, especially anything that would cause you to talk about anything you are feeling, especially because you're just not sure what that is yet. Thankfully, you have to keep the conversation short because you have to take Pearl to the pediatrician. You tell him you will see him when you get back to the hospital in a few days.

You spend New Year's Eve pretending like it isn't a special day. You don't turn on the television or radio. You turn off the phone and the answering machine. You clean out your closet and make sure all your work clothes still fit you right. You make a nice dinner, and put yourself to bed early. The next morning, you get up, brew a strong pot of coffee, and put a new calendar up. That night you get ready for your first day back at work. Ready or not, here you go.

END PT7


	8. Chapter 8

Title: **Tragic - PT 8**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 8 - I hope you like it... writing the H/Cam interaction after PT7 was a bit difficult! Thanks for sticking with it.  
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... (oh, and perhaps created my own word or two here! ;) oops!) - And I've read it a 100 times, so I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV...grrr

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You are holding your daughter's hands, examining each and every finger and nail. Her hands are small and warm, and her fingers instinctively curl around your index finger in her sleep. You are trying to decide if she has your hands. You know you have your mother's hands - the lines and wrinkles around the knuckles exactly the same as hers, the shape of your fingers so similar. The only thing different is the shape of your nails, where yours are long, your mother's nail beds were short and square. You wonder if Pearl's hand will be like yours and if she'll ever think of you one day and think of your hands. You lift Pearl's baby soft hands and kiss the palms, gently lowering her arms down beside her and tucking a blanket around her.

You go back to work today and you are stalling. Pearl was up at five and you fed her, now she's sleeping again. The sitter is here, and you know you need to leave, but it's killing you that you have to leave your daughter all day. It's almost eight, you know you will be late, but you don't care. You know you have a long day ahead of you, and you don't have enough time to come home during lunch to see her. You are fidgety, rushing around the apartment to make sure you have everything and the sitter knows where everything is, though you both know you're being a bit ridiculous. You're heart is feeling something new that you can't put a name to. But all you know is that you don't want to leave Pearl home, and you do feel guilty about it. You don't know if you would ever really be ready to leave her.

You leave the warmth of your apartment for a cold car. The car is finally feeling warmer when you reach the garage of the hospital. Your heels click quickly across the concrete as you enter the corridor and start heading toward your office. You are dreading going there. Not so much for the work, but just facing House, and the prospect of what he will or will not say to you, and what you will or will not say to him. This is another game that you really don't want to play with him. Not anymore. You just want to do your job, and go home to your daughter.

When you enter the Diagnostic Department, it is empty. By the coats hanging on the coat rack, you know that everyone is here, but they must be with a patient. You also know that you are a bit late. You haven't worked much with the two new fellows, Scott Donovan and Jeremy Tate, so this will be an additional adjustment for you. They seemed nice, but you were in pregnant-hormonal world before you left and just didn't give a crap about work at the time. You decide to start a pot of coffee, because you notice the pot is empty and cold, and you desperately need it. You ignore the overflowing mail box; you are not going to be House's glorified secretary anymore. Let one of the other guys do it, for a change. Or let an intern do it. There were going to be some changes around here, at least for you.

You are sitting at your desk catching up on twelve plus weeks of email, deleting as much junk as you can, when Donovan and Tate enter the conference room laughing. They are genial and welcome you back with pleasant greetings asking you about your daughter. They quickly update you about the patient currently under their care, and how they're just monitoring her now. They ask you how you are and are very warm, which is nice (although they're no Foreman and Chase, you like them). They ask when you'll bring Pearl in, because they met her once or twice when House was watching her when you had a doctor's appointment (House was discrete! You're shocked!). And like his ears are ringing, House enters with Wilson in tow.

"Aha, the Mother Hen returns!" he smirks to you. You glare as Wilson comes over and gives you a nice-to-see-you-glad-you're-back-hug. "Welcome back," House continues, "the coffee hasn't been the same."

Ah, nothing has changed.

Right away you jump into a new case and the whiteboard is full of symptoms. As you are about to leave the conference room and jump right back into work, House calls you into his office. He instructs you to have a seat, as he settles behind his desk. You raise an eyebrow, curious as to his motives. You two were always better when things were left un-discussed, so whatever this is, it can't be good.

You cross your legs and fold your hands over your lap. You start tapping your foot impatiently as he fiddles about his desk like he doesn't have a patient dying down the hallway. He looks at you and you raise the eyebrow again in question.

"So, how are you?" he asks.

Seriously? What is this, tea time? You question him. His face displays no emotion, no response.

"Cameron," he continues, "I would like you to start back to work slowly. Catch up on your paperwork, emails, journals, do a bit of lab work, get out of here by five o'clock, no exceptions."

Sounds like probation. Or his he babysitting you?

He smirks. "No, just do it. No patient interaction for two weeks unless I give the personal okay. Do you hear me?"

You tell him you're fine.

"I'm sure you are, but I would like to see you ease back into work and get used to the pace, plus the new schedule with Pearl and all before you dive right in."

You tell him Pearl and your schedule with her is your concern, not his. He points out to you that he doesn't want to see you have a breakdown in the office and then abruptly gets out of his chairs and leaves his office. Your face is red hot. You run to the ladies' room to rinse it with cool water.

You decide to use your lunch hour to get out and get some fresh air, regardless how cold it is. You use the time to walk, to get a little bit of exercise, to clear your mind. You call home while you're walking and check-in on Pearl. Everything is going okay, though you miss her and still feel guilty about leaving her home. You wish you had enough time during lunch to go see her.

You return to your glass-based work space with red cheeks and a runny nose. Foreman comes to visit you. He has a cup of coffee and asks about your holiday. You joke with him that he better come over and take down that Christmas tree. You know House overhears your entire conversation. He asks to see some recent pictures of Pearl. When you pull them out, House comes over and pulls up a chair next to Eric to see them too. You and Eric eye each other but just continue flipping through the little brag book you had in your purse.

As you close the book and are about to put it away, House asks if he can see it again. As he exams the pictures, he sighs, "I can't believe how much bigger she has gotten already." He voice sounds heavy and quiet. You ignore him and take your book back, putting it away. You leave him in the conference room and head to the lab to work on some tests he has allowed you to run.

Three and a half weeks later and work is back to the state it was before you left for maternity leave. You don't want to tell House that he was right; you did need some time to get used to the pace again, especially with a baby at home. You are definitely more tired than you used to be, but you're coping. You still try to get a walk in during lunch or sometime during the day, it helps. Your hours at work are getting longer, you hate that, and you _miss_ Pearl.

You have perfected avoidance, even more so than House. You are constantly finding busy work, lab work, clinic duty to fill-in, other departments in need of your help, _anything_ - to keep you busy during your work hours. You have been able to avoid any type of scrutinization by House, and any exploratory conversation with Wilson, his trusty sidekick. You just don't feel like being put under a microscope for examination. You don't need to be cut up by House, and you don't need to play his games. You just stay away from him and keep it as professional as possible. Whatever friendship you thought your may have had is now dust blowing in the wind.

There comes a day when straws must be picked for overnight observation. You pick the short straw. Despite Donovan and Tate's protests, you won't allow them to treat you any different any longer and allow one of them to switch with you. Your sitter doesn't have a problem staying for the night, you had made an agreement with her before she started that this may happen on occasion and here it is. You wish you had time to run home for an hour and see Pearl, but you can't. You won't. You have to be part of the team, and the guys are always willing to cover you and you won't let them do it, you want to do this.

The hospital gets dark and quiet and as the evening progresses. You grab something to eat and check in at home again. You ditch your heels, you change into scrubs, and they are more like pajamas, so maybe you'll be a little more comfortable for a few hours. You catch up on some paperwork and head back to the patient's room. It's about midnight, you just rechecked the patient's vitals, adjusted some medications, you're sitting in the chair making some notes in the patient's chart when the ICU door slides open. You look up and see House.

"Ok, get up, go home, I'll cover," he tells you, "You've proven your point."

What point? You tell him you're not trying to prove a point.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grabs the chart from your hands, "Martyr mother can do all. Now go home and be with your daughter."

You tell him, you're fine and you've got everything covered. Besides, at this point, she's sleeping anyway.

"You couldn't have just been a silly girl, and let Donovan and Tate do the courteous gentlemanly thing and cover you, nope! No, you couldn't do that. Had to prove to me that you're all good and fine and all the crap, okay, I got it, you're fine, you proved your point, you can do your job, blah blah blah," he spat, "now get out of here. Next time, you don't get to pull a straw. I'll pull one instead."

You tell him you don't need him pulling "any straws for you."

And, again, you're not trying to prove anything. You're just doing your job, just trying to be a doctor, a doctor that you trained to be. A fully functioning doctor.

He stops and glares at you. "You heard me."

You tell him, as always, he talks in riddles and you're tired of trying to decipher his puzzles, especially at this hour of the night.

He sighs and stares at the ceiling, one hand in tight white grip around his cane, the other hand puts the chart down and runs through his hair. "You overheard my conversation with Wilson, didn't you? That's what this is all about. All this fucking coldness . . . why you suddenly turned into a crazy ice-queen, why you think you're avoiding me, but you're not, I'm just letting you . . . why you think you're just fine, but another reason you're not, why you stopped talking to me . . . "

Talking to you? When did you two ever (really) talk? You were always better when you didn't talk. Again, you do.not.know.what.the.hell.he.is.talking.about.

"Right," he smirks. "I guess it's like the same kind of pretend I play about the time when you kissed me."

You don't realize what you did until you hear the sound, but you slap him across the face. You shock yourself. You turn to leave the room, but he grabs your wrist so hard you have a slight bruise the next day. "Good, you're finally angry. You're finally showing some kind of REAL emotion, thank god."

You laugh at him. And this from the man who has fortress walls built in the fourteenth century. This from a man who doesn't believe in "sharing." This from a man who doesn't know what the term "letting go" means. This from a man who couldn't put words to emotions, because he does not have words for them in his vocabulary, you spit at him. You shake yourself free from his grip, the hair coming loose from your ponytail, your cheeks flaring. Fine, you tell him, he can stay the night, you're going home and you'll be late in the morning. You don't look back at him, you can't. You paralyzed yourself.

You drive home like a robot. It's like your car is on tracks that guide you home. You pull in front of your apartment. You are steaming. You are so many emotions you can't even begin to list them to figure them out, but you know that they are filling you up inside so much that you want to vomit. You don't park. You do something you haven't done in a long time.

First you drive to 7-11. You know you're a doctor, but vices are hard to break sometimes. Marlboro Lights 100's. An old habit from high-school. You quit when your husband was sick. You started again when you waked him out. You buy a lighter too. It's a little after one in the morning. Closing time is two. You drive over to Murphy's. It's a few blocks from your apartment. You're still in your scrubs. You haven't been to Murphy's since before Ryan died, you two would go sometimes to watch Monday Night Football. You know the bartender, Charlie. He sees you as you take a seat at the end of the bar, you nod to him. He remembers you and brings you your drink, scotch and water (House never asked you why you had Scotch your apartment, but you've always been a drinker). You appreciate someone knowing what you need without you having to ask for it.

You light a long cigarette and take a drag, feeling the burn in your throat. You hate the nasty habit, but you love the way it makes you feel sometimes. Maybe it's the breathing. You're alternating between bringing the cigarette to your lips and cool rim of the glass to your mouth, you don't let your mouth be free for a second. Dangerous things could happen. A night like this and a mood like yours could align you with a stranger for angry sex. Of course, you brought yourself to the right place. Your belly is hot and aching. You let the scotch roll over your tongue and you savor the flavor in your mouth, the richness of the alcohol floating over your teeth, before you swallow it. You're hot, you're in heat. You better go home. You stub out your last cigarette. Place your tip on the bar and go home.

The apartment is dark and quiet. Annie, your sitter, is sleeping in your bed. You didn't call to say you were coming home, so you grab a blanket and crash on the couch. You toss and turn, you let one hot tear fall from your eye, before you grit your teeth and roll over. Eventually, you fall asleep.

You are jolted awake by Annie shaking your shoulder. "Allison," she's holding Pearl, who is crying, face red, tears rolling down her face, "something is wrong with Pearl."

You jump up and take Pearl from her, kicking yourself for not hearing Pearl's cries. She's hot, real hot. You take her temperature and she's running a fever. You are thinking it's just a cold, but you decide to stay home with her today just in case. You send Annie home after her long night, and leave House a voicemail saying Pearl is running a fever and you won't be in today. You emphasize that she _is_ really sick, so he doesn't think that you're just avoiding him after the conversation from last night (if you want to call it that).

It's a long day. Pearl is extremely fussy, and for a baby who is usually good as gold, you are exhausted. You're still wearing your scrubs from last night and you feel tired and dirty. You've given her Baby Motrin and it seems to have taken the fever down, but she's tugging at her ears, so you think she probably has an ear infection. You'll take her into work tomorrow yourself for a little checkup. Trying to get a last minute appointment with the pediatrician is a bitch. You'll have Foreman look at her ears and write a prescription, which would be more appropriate.

You finally get her down for what you think is probably going to be a short nap (and enough time for you to jump in a shower) when the door bell rings. It's House. You lean your head against the door, you feel defeated. He bangs his cane against the door just where your head is (you are in hell).

You open the door. What?

"Is she really sick?"

Yes.

"Can I come in?"

Why?

He doesn't answer, just gives you some kind of puppy dog eyes that are supposed to charm you, but you won't let them. "I came to sell Girl Scout cookies, interested? I know how you love those Tagalongs!"

You glare at him.

"C'mon, I wanted to see how she's doing."

You let out a heavy sigh and step back from the door admitting him.

Taking in your messy living room, "Rough day?"

You tell him you're tired. You've been up with a crying baby all day, you want a shower, you're hungry and now you're getting cranky. What does he want?

"Honestly, I wanted to see how Pearl was."

What? Did you not believe that she was sick?

"No, I believed you. I'm just worried about her."

You can take care of your own child, thank you very much.

"What happened to the sweet angelic Cameron I once knew?" he asks.

You tell him that he chewed you up and spit you out many moons ago, as you head to the kitchen for two beers.

You don't know why you're getting a beverage for him, you don't really need to be having a friendly conversation with him, in fact, you don't need to be having a conversation with him at all. And friendly is an adjective you highly doubt would ever be attached to a conversation you might have right now.

"How is she?"

You tell him she has a fever, a slight cold, and maybe an ear infection. You will bring her for a checkup tomorrow. He asks what you gave her. You glare at him. "Just checking," he shrugs at you, looking up from you from his beer bottle. "You know I really care about her."

You tell him you know. You let the silence ensue. You would rather not discuss it. It was something that you knew; you didn't need for him to put words to it. Besides, it's shocking that Gregory House just said that he cared for someone. What sucks is that someone is not you, but your daughter, which is nice, but part of you still wants to fuck him, no matter how much your try to deny it. (Your mind starts to wander . . . lust or love? Maybe you just really lust him and you really don't love him, maybe you're tormenting yourself for all the wrong reasons.)

"Cameron, you smell like you slept on a barroom floor last night, where the hell were you?"

You tell him you made a little pit stop on the way home last night. You laugh.

"What's so funny?"

You tell him it sounds like something he would do.

"Why don't you go jump in a shower and wash the scum off you while I'm here? If Pearl wakes up I can take care of her until you're done."

You eye him suspiciously. He looks at you. "What?"

He sighs with defeated shoulders. "Don't make me say it."

Fine. You head off to the bathroom. You know he misses her.

END PT8


	9. Chapter 9

Title: **Tragic - PT 9**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life full is tragedy at times... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 9 - Lots of changes for Cam...  
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... (oh, and perhaps created my own word or two here! ;) oops!) - And I've read it a 100 times, so I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV...grrr --oh yeah, this still stands - I'm very headachy

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You hold the mail in your hands. _Your_ mail. The envelope is staring at you. The logo screaming at you. Your hands are frozen. Your legs are two concrete pillars. You don't want to move. It is possible that your life is going to change. It may change the minute your fingers rip open the very envelope you are holding. New York Presbyterian/Columbia. One of the top medical institutions in the country. This could be it.

You move from your entry way and sit on the couch. Your memory flashes back to the cold day in September when you took the train from Princeton to Manhattan and met with the Chief of Immunology, David Silver. That lunch was so long ago, that you had forgotten about it. You were referred to him by a doctor you had met at Chase's Thanksgiving Dinner, who thought you would be perfect for a position that might be opening up at New York Presbyterian. He called Silver for you. You took the meeting. What the hell, it couldn't hurt, right?

The meeting went well, although you did not feel prepared for it at the time. Silver was older, and warm. His personality almost the complete opposite of House's. He was demanding, yet he had a twinkle in his eye that told you that he loved his job and that he really cared about his patients. Perhaps that was what had made him a bit aged before his years. His thick hair shockingly white, deep wrinkles around his eyes, his smile soft. God, he was like the grandfather you always wanted. You immediately warmed to him. Lunch lasted three hours as you discussed new research and various treatments and innovations in technology.

You continue to eye the cream colored envelope lying in the palm of your hands. Whatever this news could be, you know, may be complete upheaval to your life. You will either be devastated with rejection or overwhelmed by acceptance and shaken with the changes you will make because you just will not be able to say no. You have no choice but to open this letter by yourself. Who could you possibly share this with? (Well, besides, Pearl, but she's too young to really get it.) In your gut, the only person you even would remotely want to share this news with, surprisingly, is House, but simultaneously, he's the last person you want to tell about this. Because despite the answer, this "interview" will be a betrayal to him and he will dice you into pieces. Are you ready for that?

Pearl coos encouragement from her swing. You look at her lovingly. This could be a very good thing for you. This could be a very good thing for her. She's smiling. You smile back at her, completely enchanted by her little face, fingers in her mouth, drool down her chin. You know there is nothing you wouldn't do to give your daughter the best life possible. You know that life in New York City will be different _and_ difficult at times, but it could be a wonderful learning experience for you and her, and a wealth of opportunities and knowledge. Hopefully, if there is a job offer waiting for you in this envelope, you can provide your daughter a more than comfortable life. With those thoughts and Pearl's innocent smile, you rip open the envelope and start scanning the letter.

Your hands are shaking and you are staring at your life's latest upheaval. In writing, Dr. Silver is making you a most formal and generous offer to join his team at Columbia-Presbyterian. The letter outlines the offer with extreme detail, including a large salary hike, benefits, daycare benefits, moving expenses, and the opportunity for corporate housing for up to a year or until you can locate your own place. Dr. Silver is out of the country at some conferences, but did not want to hold up the offer any longer, hence the letter. You have two weeks to make a decision. Unfortunately and ultimately, you know that decision.

In the last four years, you know that you have aged quite a bit. You are no longer the naive girl that House once thought you were. You were never really that girl. What you project on the outside has grown, aged, matured. With every step you continue to take, you feel yourself growing, changing. You feel the fine lines around your eyes changing, the skin tightening a bit differently when you smile. You notice that your eyes are a bit more tired when you look at yourself in the mirror. You've lost something. As you head toward House's office to tell him you're leaving, you're afraid at what else you are about to lose. You wonder how differently you will look when you leave that office. You wonder if you could take a "before" and "after" picture of yourself. All you hope is that you can leave his office not in tears and holding your head up.

You approach the glass door and try to size up his mood. He's been a little better since his little visit with Pearl, you hate to say it but she's like sugar-medicine for him. You never discussed your argument; you don't know what you would say. He's fidgeting around with some papers on his desk and seems to be doing some work, and this is a bit alarming to you. You know that he is not going to take this news well. You have already spoken with Dr. Silver's office and have arranged for a start date of March 1st. You are basically giving PPTH your two-week notice. You know how temperamental and territorial House is, he is sure to make this difficult for you.

You enter his office and ask if you could talk to him. He looks up at you and tells you to take a seat, asking you "What's up?" like you're going to have a friendly little chat or maybe a discussion about why the two of you have such a fucked up "relationship" or whatever-you-want-to-call-it. Your palms are sweaty as you hand him your resignation letter, which he takes from you with a question in his eyes.

"What's this?"

You tell him that you are leaving, that you are giving him your two weeks notice and that piece of paper is your letter of resignation. He laughs and tosses the letter onto the desk.

"You can't do that, you have a contract," he tells you matter-of-factly.

Actually, you can. When your last contract was up and you renewed, you signed an open-ended contract that enabled you to leave whenever you wanted to. His face is drawn and quiet. He asks you where you are going. You tell him.

"Aha, so Davie Silver has come and recruited you and snagged you away! My! Doctor Cameron aren't we growing up! Do you think you're ready to fly away and leave the coop?" he snarls.

You tell him that you don't think it's an opportunity you could turn down.

"No, I guess not," he mock frowns, "because now you'll be the fine piece of art work at an even bigger hospital! Where there are even older and more wealthier men to admire it!"

You ask him not to do this.

"Do what?" he says, picking up his cane, beginning to twirl it. (His distraction.) "Are you going to do the long commute from Princeton every day or are going to become Mary Tyler Moore and try to make it as a big city girl?"

You stand to leave. You tell him to just read the letter, which you know you composed with care. You turn to leave. Hesitating at the door, you beg him not to make the next two weeks anymore difficult than they already are going to be. You lift your eyes and meet his stare. You tell him not to shit on everything, especially for Pearl's sake, because you know he cares about her. Just because you plan on moving to Manhattan doesn't mean that she has to be totally gone from his life.

You leave. Somehow you found a steel rod and shoved it into your spine. You hold your head up and walk down the corridor. You feel like you are outside your body as you hear your heels click down the hall. You make into the ladies room, then rush into a stall and throw up.

Others take your leaving pretty well, for the most part. Those who give you a hard time, surprise you. You are sitting in the cafeteria having some mint tea, hoping it will calm you and your stomach a bit when Foreman pulls up a chair.

"You're kidding, right?"

About?

"Columbia-Presbyterian."

No, you are not.

"Do you know what you are doing to him?" He looks at you with wide eyes, eyebrows to the ceiling.

You look at him in shock. What is he talking about?

"House."

Is he serious?

"Allison, you just can't go and leave him like this." He continues in an urgent tone.

You laugh. Surely, he's kidding. Of all people, you least expected this from Eric, the overprotective big brother.

He sighs and looks at you. "Really, I'm happy for you. This is really a wonderful thing for you, really, congratulations." He pauses and takes a deep breath, leaning in closer to you, "but do you have any idea what you are doing to House. This is going to kill him. You not being here, you not working here, you not living here. And Pearl. He loves that little girl, no matter what he says. Cam, as much as I hate to say it, and as much as I wish it wasn't House, he really cares about you. Just the jackass is totally stunted. I don't know what's going to happen if you go."

You tell Eric it's not like you're moving to California. It's sixty miles. One hour drive. Hello, there's a train! (You are desperately trying to block out everything that he is saying about House to you. You can't think about these things.) But you _are_ going. You can't be responsible for him. You just can't be. You have to think of Pearl first. Eric looks at you with slumped shoulders, his eyes are filled with regret and concern. "Okay, if you think that's what's best and that's what will make you happy. If you think you're doing the right thing . . . " he says.

Hey, you tell Foreman, House can always take the train and come and visit Pearl.

"Do you see the man taking the subway?"

Never tell House there is something he can't do, because he will just challenge you or fight you somehow, you tell Eric and you both laugh a bit.

House is unusually quiet over the next two weeks - very little snarking at you, doesn't cut you up at all, spends as little time as possible in the room with you. Wilson and Cuddy are behaving similar. They have been supportive, and have volunteered to help you in your move, but you know they are concerned about House. You can't think about that, you can't think about him. You need to think forward.

You have arranged to take a corporate apartment until you can find your own. Most of your things will go into storage because the apartment comes furnished. They have paid for people to come and do packing for you, but there are some things you want to pack up on your own. You come across the Christmas gift you never gave House. It was the picture you took of him and Pearl when she first came from the hospital. The Kodak moment that you snapped for her scrapbook. You blew up the photo and put it in a lovely frame for him. The picture came out beautiful. It's a bit mushy, you think, for him, but you think he should have it. You realize you never thanked him for the gifts he gave you and Pearl. You know you need to do this.

New York Presbyterian referred a new pediatrician for Pearl, you have a copy of her records sent over there and set up an appointment for a check up shortly after you move. You find a new OBGYN and therapist, so you keep up with your own health. You have info about the daycare center at the hospital for hospital staff, and have been referred to a nanny by Annie, so you're looking forward to meeting her and hoping that will work out. You think you have all your ducks in a row. You called Emily and Charles and let them know about the move. You're having dinner with them Sunday. They were surprised by your move, but you promised (and you are true) that you will continue to keep in touch and visit. You kept reminding them that they're not far away. You keep asking yourself why does everyone think the City is so far away?

Your moving day is approaching quickly. You will be moving on the 25th of February, which will give you a few days to get acquainted with your neighborhood and get settled in your apartment, etc. Your last day at PPTH is the 24th. You've been going through files, tidying up paperwork, passing on information to Donovan and Tate, who with each passing day seem to dread your departure. Wilson has been given the task of interviewing for House for your position. House has refused to look at CV's and was behaving like a three year old about the whole thing. As a board member, Wilson took it upon himself to rescue his friend (again).

It's getting strange, the thought of leaving a place that has become like home to you. Memories so strong, happy and painful at the same time. Your connections here have been life lines, your umbilical cord that you are afraid to cut. Will you bleed to death?

Your last two days are odd and quiet. Everyone is avoiding you. No one knows what to say. You have declined a goodbye party. Cuddy is going to be out of town on business and has said goodbye early. You told everyone that the movers are doing everything and you don't need their help. Which is true. You know you need to do all of this on your own. Because now, you really have to do everything on your own. There will be no more net to catch you.

It's your last day. Tate and Donovan bring you flowers and breakfast. You tell them they can email you if they have questions that perhaps you can answer or help them with until they are a little more settled, though you think they'll be just fine, and besides, Foreman's just upstairs. Wilson and Foreman take you to lunch. House is missing most of the day. Stacey comes by to wish you well (a surprise to you). She gives you copies of your legal documents and gives you her home number in case you need anything or if you have any emergencies.

It's getting dark. You want to say goodbye to House, you know it won't be easy. You don't _really_ want to do it. Goodbyes were never really your thing. You did it once before with him the first time you quit and you felt like a fool, but in fact, it _was_ one of the hardest things you ever did . . . tell him goodbye. You've checked his normal hiding places. Wilson asks you what did you expect? (Like you're supposed to fix anything? Everyone assumes that.) You heard he was actually fulfilling all his clinic hours and seeing patients today, but by the time you go downstairs, the clinic is empty and he's not even hiding out in any of the examination rooms.

You're about to give up. As you head back to the Diagnostic Offices for the last time to gather your bag, you see him enter his office. You smile with relief. Good, you were about to leave him a note _and_ his Christmas gift.

You put your coat on, grab your purse and get the package. You bring it into his office. You don't bother knocking because there is no point in being polite today.

"Ah, Dr. Cameron, still here?"

You tell him you were just about to leave but you had one last thing to do.

"I'm not very good at goodbyes."

You tell him you're not here to say goodbye, because you don't particularly like them yourself, so you're just going to say goodnight, you smile warmly at him.

You know he's uncomfortable. This time it's his turn to clench. First, you tell him you never had a chance to thank him for the Christmas gifts that he got you and Pearl. You tell him how much she loves Mozart and that her prized yo-yo is sitting upon her dresser waiting for the day when she can be taught how to "walk the dog." He smiles and glances down.

You tell him normally you would have written a thank you note, but it kind of got away from you, but that's another story for another time (you think of kicking the boxes and the bruise running up your side and you falling with Pearl). He looks at you curiously narrowing his blue eyes. You tell him you love the scarf as you touch the soft fabric around your neck. The book is very handy, especially as you gear up for your big move. The necklace, well, the necklace was especially touching. And if you ever have another child one day you will put that child's picture in the other side. You smile. You've said your peace.

He looks at you with surprise. "You mean you didn't put a picture of Ryan in there?"

You are confused. Why would you?

"Because he's the father of your child, the love of you life?"

You laugh. And sigh. (Silly, silly man.) No, you tell him. He was not the love of your life. Yes, you loved him in a way, but really, he was just a chapter in your book. You tell him that you believe that your life is filled with many chapters and you believe that you were meant to have more than one love of your life. Unfortunately, it was a lie to yourself, he was not one of them. You smile warmly at House and you thank him for the thought.

You want to close the awkwardness that is between the two of you. You hand him the gift that you have for him, explaining that you got him this for Christmas, just never got around to give it to him. You tell him that you hope he likes it, you think it's special because it was a special moment. He looks at you quizzically. In a swift and fluid motion, you close the distance between you even more and quickly lean in, reaching up, kissing him on the cheek and embracing him, feeling the warmth of his body in your arms (he is frozen still). You shiver. (You love the way he smells.) You say goodnight and tell him that Manhattan is not far when he wants to visit Pearl, especially since he hasn't had a chance to say his own goodbye's to her. You tell him the offer to visit is open whenever - if ever - he wants. You turn and leave without looking at him. Because you just can't.

END PT 9


	10. Chapter 10

Title: **Tragic - PT 10**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life is tragic at times... (Cam's POV)  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 10 - First time in the big city. . . & a bit lonely...  
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar (esp. in this part), and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... this was put out a bit rushed due to some, uhem, reader demands! ;P JK This part was getting very long, so I had to cut it short and make it three parts... hope you enjoy it... And I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV --oh yeah, this still stands - I'm _still_ very headachy

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Every cliché that you can possibly think of has been entering your head as an explanation to your life recently. March, so you thought, entered like a lion and left like a lamb, but the damn lion is back. You should have been forewarned by the Ides of March that there was trouble coming, but you didn't pay attention. Then The Fates took over and started to really play with you. And your daughter - sweet, charming cherub that she is - had a role in it. You sigh as you look at her sitting in her carriage, laughing, with drool coming down her smiling lips, fist in mouth. You can't help but smile at her, because really, what the hell does she know? If you only knew what last weekend would bring you . . .

Your move to Manhattan went as smoothly as possible. You put a lot of stuff in storage, so you really don't have much unpacking to do, but you still find yourself still searching through the occasional box for some odd object you just _must_ have. Time has gone painfully fast and slow at the same time. You jumped right into work. The people there are nice, but they lack the warmth that you found at PPTH. The corporate apartment is spacious enough and clean, but it lacks the coziness that you would normally call home. You do like the neighborhood, but you are not quite sure how you are ever really going to be able to afford a decent apartment in the city. You quickly sell your car when you realize the monthly costs of parking in a garage, and the alternative side of the street parking schedule is just too difficult for you to keep up with. You have a few day care options that you are comfortable with, which is good. There is a place a few blocks away that has a lot of interactive classes, there is day care at the hospital, the sitter that Annie hooked you up with is also great (though, not available every day) and you've also found two great teenage babysitters in the apartment complex that completed a babysitting training course and came with references!

You are busy and lonely, and really, the joy of your day is seeing your daughter's face. You look forward to seeing her first thing in the morning and rushing home right after work and looking into her eyes. You have not really had the chance to keep up with your email or phone calls too well, and you are sorely lacking in personal adult conversation, although you really don't have much to talk about outside the daily routine of work and taking care of Pearl.

You are happy when the weather starts warming and you can put Pearl in the stroller and explore the neighborhood a bit. You like a local café that has outdoor seating. Though it's still a bit cool out, they have warming lamps so it's very comfortable. You really haven't cooked much (who are you cooking for anyway?), so you have really started becoming a regular there. One Sunday morning, Pearl picks up a man for you. (Damn that girl! You sure are going to have to watch her when she's sixteen!)

You are quietly reading your paper, still picking at your eggs and toast. Pearl is in her stroller next to you, happily chewing on a cookie and playing with a rattle and some toys attached to her stroller, just cooing to the world. Like you have a third eye watching her, you are able to reach out and catch the rattle every time she's about to drop it to the ground without moving your eyes from your paper. But that smart little girl catches you off guard when you are turning the paper and flings her rattle a few feet away to a neighboring table.

You turn to retrieve the rattle and you see a large tan hand extending toward you holding it in front of you. "Here you go. Your daughter has quite an arm."

You look up, thanking the man, and take notice of him. Relatively tall, short salt and pepper hair, face a bit long, though attractive, hazel eyes with a twinkle, friendly smile, early forties. (Your observation skills are quick at work.) Yes, she does have quite an arm, you tell the man, as you wipe the rattle off with a napkin and deposit in your purse. Pearl now is now intrigued by the large plastic keys attached to the front of her stroller, trying to bring them to her mouth, her cheeks plastered with mashed cookie. You reach out to wipe her face with a napkin, she instinctively squirms.

"How old is she?" he asks.

She'll be six months soon, but she seems really ahead of the learning curve, you tell him. You start to feel a little uncomfortable with the man still standing over your table, and you shift in your chair a bit trying to look up at him, your eye squinting in the morning sun.

"I'm sorry," he says, then extending his hand, "I'm John Flannery."

Allison Cameron. You shake his hand.

"Um, I've seen you two here before. I'm a regular, and I see you and your daughter are quickly becoming ones also," John smiles to you.

Yes, you blush, and then are glad when the waitress approaches to refill your coffee. John is crouched in front of the carriage shaking a toy in front of Pearl.

This is Pearl, you tell him.

"Hi Pearl," he smiles at her, "she's beautiful." He stands and faces you. "Well, let me leave you two to your breakfast, it was nice meeting you," and he graciously starts to back away.

John, you call to him. You tell him, you're still having your coffee, would he like to join you. Pearl is laughing loudly, banging her fists on the stroller. (When did you get so ballsy? Well, you are _dying_ for some adult conversation. And he _is_ an adult, an attractive male adult for that matter, what could it hurt? Right?)

"Sure," he says, "you don't mind?"

No, you shake your head.

"That would be great." He grabs his own coffee, bag, _guitar case_ and half-eaten plate and joins you.

For the next two Sundays, John joins you and Pearl for breakfast. She seems to like him, which makes you happy. He's from the Midwest originally, and on occasion, you catch the soft undertones of a twang in his accent. He is a musician (you're really glad he's not a doctor). He teaches kids of all ages different types of instruments at a school. He's a studio musician, and performs from time to time with orchestras when there are sick calls, etc. You like his gentle manner and the easy conversation you are able to have with him. You have a feeling he's a "player," but you kind of don't care, but you know you need to "get back in the game," at some point. And he's nice to you, and you have no friends in the city, so right now you don't care.

You know he lives in your neighborhood; supposedly in a brownstone apartment a few blocks away from you, but neither of you have visited each other's apartments. On your second breakfast, you take Pearl for a long walk in Central Park until she falls asleep. He walks you back to your building and asks you out to dinner Friday night. You accept. He asks if you'll have problems finding a babysitter, you smile and say you won't. Good, he smiles back at you. He tells you that you'll go somewhere local so that you'll be close to home in case you need to rush back. You blush a little when you say goodbye and you'll see him Friday at seven.

You search all week for the perfect thing to wear. You feel like you haven't been on a date in ten years, though it's been more like two or so, but still, it's been a while. You decide on a black dress that you haven't worn in a really long time (since your disastrous dinner with House, so you're hoping all the evil that may have been associated with it has come and gone by now), but you like the way it looks on you, so you're going with it. You're ripping through boxes to find the perfect heels, and you do. You leave your bedroom a mess, deciding you'll deal with the tornado Saturday after the date.

Thankfully Friday, you can jet out of work by four o'clock. You pick up Pearl and rush downtown to your apartment, hoping you'll have enough time to shower and feed her before John arrives. You're excited and a little nervous; you kind of feel like you're in high-school again, mainly because the feeling of a date is so unfamiliar to you. You try to calm yourself by remembering that you have already had breakfast with this man, who yes, albeit a complete stranger, is very nice and you are very comfortable with him - so far. You take deep breaths to calm your nerves as you try to style your hair a bit and apply some makeup (it's been a while since you wore eye shadow and you're afraid if you overdo it you'll end up looking like a whore, not exactly the look you want to go for tonight). The doorbell rings and thankfully it's Amy, a girl who lives in the building, who will be sitting Pearl tonight.

You become the worrisome mother, giving Amy more info than she could possibly need. You are only going to be about eight blocks away and you will have your cell phone on you, so you really have no reason to worry. But, you just can't help it. Deep down, you know you just fear the whole dating process all over again. Pearl doesn't even cry when you leave to meet John in the lobby. You choke back tears in the elevator on your way down.

The restaurant is cozy and a bit dark, but you are having a good time and the food is good. You've had a few glasses of wine (good or bad thing? You haven't decided yet) and you are feeling a little sexier than when you left your apartment. You are having a good time, and you think John is also enjoying himself. You are both leaning into the table talking closer to each other, that's always a good sign. You're attracted to him, and with the wine, you are definitely feeling some growing heat. You like the way his cheekbones look when he smiles, the thickness of his graying hair - you wouldn't mind running your fingers through it. You're starting to really think about his lips, when mid-laugh, your cell phone rings. That stops you dead.

You look at the screen and see it's coming from your apartment. Amy? Is Pearl okay? What's wrong? Your heart is racing and caught in your throat.

"Well," she begins to explain, "there is a Dr. House in the lobby insisting on being let up. But I don't know him and the doorman won't let him up without an approval. And I didn't know what to do, Dr. Cameron, so I figured I better call you."

(You got to be kidding. Tomorrow is April first, is this an early April Fool's Joke? You are going to kill him.)

You instruct her to ask the doorman if he has a cane and looks like he hasn't shaved in a week. She comes back and says yes. (You can't win.) Let him up you tell her. As you wait on the phone for him to arrive in your apartment, your shoulders start to slump. You look at John apologetically and mouth to him that you're sorry and will explain. He nods at you with confusion in his eyes.

You hear rustling in the background and then House's voice. "Cameron, where the hell are you?"

Out. Obviously. What does he think he is doing?

"Didn't you get my email?"

No.

"It's Pearl's half-birthday Sunday, so I thought I would come for a visit," he says like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Half-birthday? He's kidding, right?

"Nope," he responds, "and since mine is coming up too - which you always like to remind me about, I thought I'd make a little trip and come see you all . . . where are you?"

You tell him you're out. That you wish you knew he was coming, because this isn't really great timing, you try to whisper into the phone. (This isn't exactly great first date etiquette, you think to yourself.)

"Well, when are you coming home?" He asks. Actually, it's more like a demand, like he expects you to drop everything and come right home, and you know that's exactly what he wants you to do.

You guess soon, you tell him.

"Hey," he whispers into the phone, "can I send the babysitter home? I'm not exactly comfortable sitting around waiting for you with a seventeen year old girl with huge knockers."

Fourteen.

"Fourteen! Hurry home then!"

Just pay her, you tell him, she's lives in the building so she'll be fine getting home.

"How much?"

You tell him.

"Seriously? That's extortion!"

Just pay the damn babysitter you hiss into the phone, you would like to be able to use her again.

"Fine, but you're paying me back as soon as you get your ass back here!" He clicks the phone off.

You shut your eyes and shake your head. This.Cannot.Be.Happening. At least not right now. This must be some kind of bad dream. Or at least bad wine. You want to ask John if your cell phone really did ring, but you know he would think you're crazy, and it's way too early for him to start thinking you're crazy.

You make apologies and explain that you are going to have to wrap up this evening. You quickly explain that Pearl's godfather (because you don't know what else to call him any more) has made an unexpected visit and you should really try to get back to your place as soon as possible.

Thankfully, you both have already finished dinner so you are just skipping out on sweets and coffee and any _potential_ dessert. John being the gentleman of the evening, smiles at you and says, "Rain check?"

Sure, you nod, that would be great.

As angry as you are at House, you try to enjoy your walk back to your apartment with your hand on John's arm. In fact, you try to make it as leisurely a stroll as possible; you are wearing three inch heels after all. When you arrive at your apartment, he insists on seeing you up to your door. You eye him up, knowing he wants to see what's really going on. You decide, why the hell not, besides, House _should_ know that he just interrupted your damn date.

You open the apartment door and find House sitting on the floor playing with Pearl. You hate to say it, but you love seeing the two of them together. Your heart just overwhelms with emotion. You find yourself ecstatic to see a familiar face, and as he raises himself off the ground to greet you, you instinctively go over to him and hug him. Maybe it's the wine. But you couldn't stop yourself, because you are just happy to see him. He looks a little stunned, but brushes it off quickly. Hi, you smile at him, it's good to see you.

"You too," he says.

You cut your hair, you smile at him, as you reach up to touch his hair (and amazingly he lets you). You tell him that you like it, and you think you see him briefly blush. You are so excited to see him (you really want to jump all over him, wrap your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist and squeeze him tight), you momentarily forget that John is standing awkwardly behind you.

As you are beaming at House, he reaches his hand out and says, "Hi there, Greg House."

"John Flannery." They shake like two gentlemen sizing each other up for a duel like Hamilton and Burr.

Sorry, sorry, you tell them both. You tell them you just realized how good it was to see a familiar face; you didn't realize how homesick you were until just this moment. Suddenly, you want to usher John quickly to the door and you start to. John, you're so sorry to have to cut the evening short, but thanks so much for the lovely evening.

"So, will I see you at brunch Sunday?" he asks, as you are about to close the door on him.

You look briefly at House, who quickly narrows his eyes on you and then turns his attention back to Pearl. You tell John that with Greg in town, you're not quite sure that you'll be at brunch this weekend, but you'll talk to him during the week. He resigns to that, kisses you on the cheek and leaves.

"So, new boy toy?"

You turn to House, don't start you tell him, hands on hips. He did not email you that he was coming for a visit.

"I certainly did," he proclaims, "just this afternoon."

Well, that's sufficient notice, you tell him. You never got it.

"What, get out of work early for your little date?" he smirks, continuing to play with Pearl.

You sigh. You tell him that you're going to change, as you head down the hallway to your bedroom.

"You look hot, by the way," he says to you without looking up. "Nice dress."

It's going to be a long weekend. In fact, it's hardly begun.

END PT 10


	11. Chapter 10A

Title: **Tragic - PT 10A**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life is tragic at times... (Cam's POV)  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 10 cont'd Part A - House makes a surprise visit to Cam

So, here is a very short part of the continuation of Part 10… it's a bit of a teaser, hope you like it!

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar (esp. in this part), and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... And I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV --oh yeah, this still stands!

xxxxxxxxxx

PT 10 Cont'd Part A

You teeter down the short hallway on your heels, feeling like a fawn walking for the first time. Out of drunkenness? (Nah, it wasn't enough wine.) Out of uneasiness? Out of excitement? Frustration? (What kind?) You can't decide. You sit on the end of your bed and kick your heels off into the open closet in front of you. What a night. You can't believe he's here. You can't believe you actually allowed yourself some "you" time, and he fucking showed up. Not only do you feel guilty about leaving your daughter home, but you feel oddly ashamed like he _caught_ you going out on a date. This thought makes you angry.

You now officially hate this dress. It's being donated to Goodwill tomorrow. You unzip it and as you roughly pull it over your head you hear a seam tear. You toss it onto the floor somewhere near your shoes. You flop back onto your bed, reaching your arms above your head, stretching, hoping it will relax you. You stay in this position just for a few moments, just trying to gather yourself before having to deal with the mess sitting in your living room . . . 

"Nice," says a sly voice standing in your doorway. (Unfortunately, the mess comes to you).

You snap up. House! What does he think he's doing? You frantically try to find something to cover you, and out of nervousness you are failing.

"You really went all out today," he smirks, "lacy black bra, sexy panties, hose, the whole shebang. Poor Johnny is really missing out. Wow, Cam, I had no idea . . . "

You pick up a shoe and throw it at him. You are aiming to hurt.

He laughs. "I'm just kidding, I'm kidding," he laughs, backing out of the room, closing the door behind him, and then just speaking through the crack. "I just wanted to see if I could give Pearl a bottle. She seems like she's about ready for bed, and I'm not sure what her nighttime routine is any more."

You are sitting on the floor. It's only Friday night and you feel defeated already. How long is he planning on staying? Sure, you tell him, and give him some instructions on where the bottles are, etc. He leaves, securely closing the door. You want to cry, but instead, you start to laugh. You find you favorite flannel pajamas, tie your hair up in a bun, put some oversize socks on and you're set for the night. This is as sexy as House is going to see you.

The living room is empty. You go to Pearl's room and peek in the door. House is sitting in the rocking chair giving Pearl her bottle. You're surprised to see he changed her into pajamas. He's talking gently to her as she's sucking on the bottle, one hand on her bottle, one hand reaching up and touching his face. You find yourself overcome with tears, you turn back out of the room before they see you, you feel like you're invading a private moment between the two of them. You hurry off to the kitchen to distract yourself and to compose yourself for what feels like the hundredth time this evening.

Almost an hour later, you've been settled on the couch with a scotch in hand watching television. There's a second scotch condensing on your coffee table. You lift yourself off the sofa to see what the hell happened. You walk into the nursery to find House and Pearl both sleeping. It makes you smile. You gently lift Pearl out of his arms, kissing her sweet head and nuzzling your nose in her neck before depositing her into her crib. You just can't get enough of her sometimes. She barely stirs.

When you turn to rouse House, you find him watching you. Hi.

"Hi," he responds softly.

You tell him he fell asleep. He nods. It's awkward. You're still not used to seeing him like this - in an intimate moment, responding in a soft manner. You look away from him, looking at Pearl, anywhere but him. C'mon, you tell him, let me get you set up for the night.

You start to leave the room to gather linens, resisting the urge to give him your hand, to help him out of that rocker. He would hate you if you did that, wouldn't he? You bring pillows and blankets into the living room and you find him there, sipping at the scotch you had left for him.

You ask him if he had any dinner.

"No, but I'm fine."

You watch him pop a vicodin. You know it's from sitting in that chair for too long. You tell him let you whip him up a quick omelet or something as you walk to the kitchen.

"No," he responds harshly. You stop in your tracks. "Cameron, I'm fine."

Okay. You sit on the couch, curling your legs underneath you. The consummate caretaker in you has to egg on, you would happy to order some take out or something for him. He glares at you. Okay, okay, you'll stop. You smile at him, you can't help it.

You hear Pearl stirring a bit on the baby monitor. You tell him you have to warn him that she's teething, so her good nights are mixed in with her bad ones.

"Yeah, I thought I saw a tooth in there," he said, staring into his drink. He looks tired.

Yes, she cut it last week. There looks like there might be another one coming any day now, so she's a little fussy.

Silence. Now it's just the two of you. No more dates, babysitters or babies. Do you mention the elephant in the room? Why the hell not? You're really getting to old for this shit.

You ask him why he's here.

"I wanted to come for a visit," he says, finally looking up at you, "is that okay?"

You want to know more, but you know trying to get information out of him is worse than dealing with Pearl's teething. So, you shrug, fine.

"And, it's Pearl's half-birthday . . . "

Yeah, what kind of crap is that?

"Shut up and let me finish!" He actually cracks a smile at you, you smile back, it's starting to feel a little bit like old times now. "And my birthday -uhem- is coming up, and I wanted to share a little cake with her."

She doesn't eat cake.

"Why do you always have to ruin all the fun?"

You shrug again and sip your drink.

"I was thinking a little ice cream cake, can we try that?"

You guess.

"And . . . " you can see he's struggling to say something, so you'll just let him take his time, "and I missed her."

(Of course he did, he always misses her.)

"And I missed you," he continues, "I missed you both and I wanted to see you."

You are surprised by his confession. Coming from Gregory House, it's huge. You try not to blush, and you try to hide your smile. You tell him that you both missed him too.

"So, I was wondering, tomorrow night, do you think you can probably get a babysitter?"

Why?

"Well, it's my birthday too? Well, almost," he continues, "and there's something I want to do."

Like?

"Well, it's kind of surprise . . . basically, because I need to make sure the place still exists."

You don't think you'll have a problem getting a babysitter.

"Do you think it can be a non-teen babysitter, you know, someone who can stay late, if necessary?"

You look at him quizzically.

"Well," he continues, be-grudgingly giving little information, "it could very possibly be a very late night."

You narrow your eyes at him, asking him what kind of trouble is he up to.

"Nothing, nothing," he resigns, "it's my birthday and there's this place I want to go - and if it's still there, we'll be hanging out late . . . and so, in that case, you better get your beauty sleep!" And he winks at you.

You tell him, you don't know what he's up to, and you're not sure if you like it.

"Relax, relax, it's no big deal," he protest, "you're making it into a bigger something than it is . . . look at this way, we're going to go out to celebrate my birthday - something you've been trying to get me to do for years - and you get to go out like an adult, which for the exception of your little date tonight, how often do you get to do that?"

Okay, you say, surprised he mentions your date with no snide remarks. Off to bed you go, mentally trying to prepare yourself for the next day and for whatever fun and games that House might be up to. And with him, you never know.

END PT 10A


	12. Chapter 10B

Title: **Tragic - PT 10B**  
Rating: R (language)  
Summary: Cameron's life is tragic at times... (Cam's POV)  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: PT 10 cont'd Part B - House makes a surprise visit to Cam

Sorry so, here is the longer part! Hope you like it!

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar (esp. in this part), and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... And I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV --oh yeah, this still stands!

xxxxxxxxxx

You are awake in your bed, listening to the sounds of the city, watching the lights change on your walls. For the first time, everything seems so foreign, so new, so uncomfortable. This room doesn't feel like your room, although it has some of your personal touches, it feels empty and lonely. You try not to think about the man stretched out on your sofa down the hall. It's too hard to think about him, too confusing. You try not to strain your ears to listen to his breathing, signs of gentle snoring, to see if he's sleeping yet.

You swallow these words and thoughts deep into yourself, a black pit that you try to cover and hide. You miss this man terribly. Every day. You choke back a tear. You won't let yourself cry. You don't know what it is about him, because he makes you crazy, miserable at times, and you don't know what the hell it is that you two share, but this odd connection - that neither one of you is good at verbalizing - you have been missing it every day since you have left Princeton. You have been lucky enough to keep busy that you have not dwelt on it, you haven't allowed yourself. You're happy he's here, your happy he made that _first_ move and you didn't have to beg him, in any sense or form, for contact. You feel so hollow. You long to have him lying beside you. You want to curl up behind his body and wrap your arms around him, nuzzle your nose in his neck, feel his warmth. That would be home. Somehow you fall asleep between choking tears and imagining holding him tight.

Your sleep is plagued by erotic dreams. Images of House finding you asleep on your bed, dressed in your black lace bra and panties that you were wearing earlier. He approaches you like you are his prey (you are). He teases you without mercy, holding your arms down, kissing and nipping at your entire body. He is fully clothed and dominating you, it is turning you on. You allow yourself to be vulnerable to him, and he is _slowly_ taking care of you . . . your dream is shattered by clanging pots and you are jolted away, breathless.

What the hell is going on? You smell bacon.

You try to fix yourself up a bit and head for the kitchen where you find House at the stove and Pearl in her highchair.

House is holding a spatula in his hand. He looks at you, then Pearl, "Sorry," he smiles, "we wanted mommy to sleep in a little longer, but we screwed up, didn't we munchkin?" Pearl actually baby babbles back and bangs her little hands on the highchair tray.

Well, good morning. Sleep okay? You pour yourself a cup of coffee, surveying your kitchen, you see House made himself at home, and made bit of a mess.

"Well, your other couch is much more comfortable than this one," he responds, pretending to grab his aching back.

Sorry, it's in storage. With all your other stuff.

"Hungry?"

A bit. He places a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of you. "Toast is on the way!"

Was all this in your fridge?

"No, Pearl and I got up early and took a little walk down to the market." He puts the pan in the sink and sits across from you. "By the way, you should really clean out your purse, I couldn't find a damn thing!"

He went snooping in your purse?

"For keys to the apartment! Chill!" mouth full of eggs, "and I had to convince your doorman not to call and wake you up and that I wasn't stealing your daughter, so could you please call down there later and tell them I'm an 'approved' guest and I don't need to keep checking in . . . I mean the security is great, but what a pain in the ass."

You tell him it's your way of keeping tabs on him. You wink.

"Ha ha."

You thank him for letting you sleep in and for breakfast, as you try to brush the sleep out of your eyes and the dream out of your mind.

"No problem. It's the least I could do for barging in and all." He shrugs. "Besides, I got some more quality time with my little munchkin, didn't I?"

You can't believe he's actually baby talking to her. Where is a video camera when you need one. If his co-workers at PPTH could see this now. Well, they would be wondering where the alien came from that has taken over House's body. You watch them with raised eyebrow, fork midway to your mouth. He's actually tickling her, and _they're both_ laughing. You must be in the wrong apartment.

He turns and sees your face. "What?"

Nothing. Who is he?

"Stop, can't I enjoy the innocence of a child?" he asks.

You shrug and continue with your eggs.

The three of you spend the day together enjoying the early spring of Manhattan. You go to the park and push Pearl in the swing for a little, House watching you from the bench. When she falls asleep for a bit in her stroller, you sit next to him in the sun.

"Do you like it here?"

It's hard to say. You haven't been here long enough. And you really haven't had a chance to make any new friends yet.

"What about Johnny?"

What about him? You glance at him, he's not looking at you, you're not surprised. You sigh. You tell him, it's nothing really, you just met him, he seems nice, it was good to have an adult conversation with someone outside work. (Not that it's any of _his_ business.)

"You could have called."

You point out that he could have also.

"I'm not so good on the phone."

You tell him you're both not so good on the phone. You seem to have a problem communicating as it is. He finally looks at you. You're not quite sure what his eyes are telling you, you don't know if you have the patience to decipher it. You sometimes wish he could just spit it out, like he so often does with other things. You're glad when Pearl starts stirring in her stroller. You lift her out, hand her to House and grab a bottle from the bag as he tries to shush her.

You tell him that you kind of miss Princeton, that it felt like home. (You don't tell him it's because he's there. You just feel better when he's around. You don't tell him because you refuse to let him know that you're _that_ weak. That you could possibly _need_ him.)

You start heading back to the apartment, but not before stopping at the local Häagen-Dazs for a small ice cream cake. Somehow House convinces the sales person to write on this very tiny cake, Happy 1/2 B-Day Pearl and Happy Early B-Day Old Man. You shake your head.

You introduce House to your favorite new Chinese take out place. He approves. You both sit on the floor in front of the coffee table picking out of the cartons. You didn't even bother with the plates. The babysitter is coming at eight. House is insisting that you have the ice cream cake tonight, though it's not officially Pearl's half birthday until tomorrow (he has something for her for tomorrow. You just know he's going to spoil the shit out of her). You agree on having the ice cream cake tonight.

You both argue over how many candles to put on the cake. Neither one of you can decide how many would make the most sense, so you end up choosing four for the month of April. Besides, the cake is so darn small, it just doesn't make any sense to put more than four. You're still shocked by all the lettering on the cake. You insist on taking a picture. And you get a great shot of House and Pearl smiling in front of the lit candles - yes, even House is smiling. You let Pearl taste the melted vanilla parts of the ice cream, which she of course, loves. She keeps opening her mouth for more, her little pink tongue reaching out toward her tiny spoon, hoping it's filled with more sweet ice cream. (Someone is picking up someone else's sweet tooth already. They're not even related by blood, for god's sake!)

So, where to tonight?

"We are going to a blues club down in the village. It's off West Fourth, by some really loud Mexican place," he says with pride. "This place is great, trust me. I haven't been there in years, but I'm sure they're still there. It's a total hole in the wall, tiny little place, sawdust on the floor type of place, but the best music you want to hear . . . so go get dressed, and I'll get the kid ready for bed."

What should you wear?

"God, Cameron," he sneers at you, "you're not going to work, so jeans and T-shirt will pretty much work here. Aw, too bad, I don't have the bike with me, which would of been great, to go down there on the bike."

The bike?

"Oh yeah, I bought a motorcycle?"

Does he have a death wish?

"Nah, I was just feeling a little bored. Besides, my distractions were gone," he smirks at you as he carries Pearl toward the sink to wipe her face and fingers clean of the sticky ice cream.

You shake your head and go to change. Jeans and T-shirt it is. Jeez, he's making it easy. Favorite pair of dark blue boot-cut low-ride jeans. Black v-neck T-shirt, black healed suede boots. Just a little makeup, so you don't look like you're thirteen and you're good to go.

The doorbell rings, the babysitter arrives. You give her your list of instructions and emergency numbers, kiss Pearl a hundred times, as House is practically dragging you out the door. "Hey, it's my birthday too!" he's reminding you.

As you're waiting for a cab, you're take a plastic clip out of your bag. You twist your hair up and clip into place. House turns and watches you. "Uh uh. Cameron, this isn't Mommy and me night, give me that," he says, grabbing the clip out of your hair, you hair spiraling down around your shoulders.

What is he doing?

He drops the clip to the ground and smashes it with his cane. "We're going out tonight to have fun, like a bunch of stupid college kids. No need to put your hair up like you're impressing some friends who need to think you're conservative mom or some shit like that."

You tell him he could have just handed it back to you instead of smashing it to pieces at your feet.

"We'll stop at CVS or Duane Reade tomorrow and I'll buy you a new one, 'kay? Will that satisfy you?"

He just stuns you, but you can't help but laugh.

"Just get in the cab," he swats at you with his cane as the cab pulls to curb.

He's right. The bar is a hole in the wall. If you didn't know to look for it, you would never know it's there. There's no sign above the nondescript door, and there are high windows, so you can't see into the place. The bar is long and narrow. On the left side along the length of the wall runs the bar, on the right side there is a long cushioned bench, tables and chairs facing it. At the far end there is a stage, a u-shaped bar wrapped around it, surrounded by more chairs. It is a tight space. You are arriving fairly early, so you have your choice of seating at the moment, but not for long.

House guides you over to cushioned bench, the closest spot to the door, where there is a partition; there will be no one seated on one side of you two. "Here, sit next to me," he says as he slides in on the bench next to the partition. "Once the music really starts going - and it will - and the place gets crowded, I'll never be able to hear you otherwise."

You scoot in next to him, taking you coat off and lying it across your lap for the moment. He orders two scotches. In a matter of minutes, the place starts filling up and there is barely a seat to be found. There is a couple sitting across from the two of you, people are squeezing on to the bench, you have to keep inching closer to House. There are people crowded around the bar and around the stage. It's getting warm in the bar. Maybe it's the scotch.

You ask him how he found this place.

"Oh god, years ago, some drunken night, wandering around the city on a winter night. I barely remember," he pauses, "I think Wilson was with me. I just remember the music being fantastic. From what I recall they often have open Mic.-night, or the bands usually call up other musicians and jam, it was just amazing. I came a few times, but it's been years. I always wanted to come back. I'm glad it's still here." He's talking into your ear; his breath is tickling your neck. You pick up drink and take a gulp.

The music _is_ amazing. The range of blues goes from soulful to funky to bluegrass. Musicians trading off and jamming with each other, creating poetry in unrehearsed moments. The palette on the stage is invigorating and moving, the music so full of depth. You are enjoying yourself immensely. You feel House tap his hand along to the bass line of a dark bluesy song, and two scotches in, you are craving a cigarette. Your vice.

You lean over and tell him how you're not used to un-smoky bars in Manhattan, it kind of freaks you out in a way.

"Yeah, it is kind of weird, especially in a blues club," he says, "thankfully, you can still get lung cancer in New Jersey."

You tell him you're craving a cigarette.

He pulls his head back in shock. "You? My moral compass of all that is good and sweet in this world? You craving a cancer stick?"

Hey, everyone has their vices. No one told him to put you on a pedestal, you're only human (hopefully he can see that you _are_ real and make mistakes and are human and everything! What a shocker!).

"Dr. Cameron," he shakes his head, "Well, golly, I am just shocked!"

You laugh lightly at him. Now your fingers tapping at the table, trying to get rid of the urge to finger a cigarette. You haven't had that craving in a while. It doesn't happen to you often. Only occasionally do a few things trigger it - anger, alcohol and lust. Sometimes nervousness too, but not as often.

The band takes a break. Music is played on some speakers. You can see the smokers head outside right away, and the line for the bathroom is already long. You order your third scotch, this time with water (you better slow down, especially if House plans to keep you out until four in the morning).

You turn and face him as he's giving the waitress the rest of his order.

"So, do you like it?"

You love it, you tell him. You're having a great time. What about him? It's his birthday, wasn't this what _he_ wanted?

"Yes, this is great," he smiles (again! This makes you happy).

"So, you're not mad at me for barging in on you this weekend?"

No, you're over it. Though, a little more notice, would have been considerate, so you would have been better prepared for his arrival. You realize you're beaming at him, so you turn away and lift your drink to your mouth. No really, it's good to see him, and Pearl loves him, she obviously hasn't forgotten him at all, which is hysterical. He laughs.

"Who would have thought?"

Yes, who would have thought that grumpy Dr. House would be totally smitten by a six month old baby and be totally wrapped around her little pinkie you ask him.

His drink in his hand pauses halfway to his mouth as he absorbs that statement. You are shocked that he has no quick comeback. You are relieved that you are saved by the music starting up and patrons filing back into their seats. Again, you are forced closer into House's body. Now, he has his arm along the top edge of the bench, so you are seated much more intimately than before. You glance up at him to see if he realizes this. He does, because he pulls you a little closer into him.

He leans down and whispers hotly through your hair into your ear. "You know, I didn't miss Pearl more than I missed you."

You feel a pang in your stomach. Slowly, you turn your head toward him and look up to his face. You see it before you can react. You feel before you can think. Soft lips on yours, cool tongue gliding slowly along your lips, gently, yet aggressively, entering your mouth, gliding over your tongue. He pulls away. "I missed you . . . _a lot_." Pecks your mouth one more time and brings his attention back to the stage.

He's good at shocking you. You'll give him that. He always has you on your toes. Because you did not expect that. Not from him. Not ever. Especially in a public place. Wow. That was incredible. You run your tongue along the inside your mouth, savoring the taste he left there. (Where is a speed a-dial girlfriend when you need one? Shit, you don't have any. Crap. You could really use some advice here).

You take your left hand and place it on his knee. The knee to his _bad_ leg. He doesn't flinch, and he doesn't move your hand. A few songs later, you feel him put his left hand over yours and hold it, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. You close your grip over his fingers a bit. You let the music, a little bit of the scotch, and the feelings just wash over you.

END PT 10B


	13. Chapter 11

Title: **Tragic - PT 11**  
Rating: **M** --please note warning label! ;)  
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV)  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: Long night..leaving the blues club...

it may be a bit longer before next chapter...it's taking a little longer to write...

Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar (esp. in this part), and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... And I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV --oh yeah, this still stands!

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You are dreading the music ending, the noise of the horns winding down, the guitars being put back in their cases, amps taken off the stage. Rich voices stretching out their last mournful lyric, harmonicas placed in pockets, basses thumping their last rhythm. You are dreading the awkwardness of whatever you may find and feel with House when you leave the bar. The unknown. And the want.

You leave the bar shortly after three. Rushing out into the cool air, you dash across the street to the open Korean before House can say anything. He knows what you're doing. You spend a ridiculous nine dollars on a pack of cigarettes, knowing you'll smoke three of them. You know you need to get one into your mouth immediately, because you don't know what else to do. You light it, inhale and cross back over the street to where House is leaning against a lamp post.

"I'd never thought I'd see the day where Allison Cameron was jones-ing for a cigarette," he smirks.

You laugh and inhale again. What now? Maybe you should check in with the sitter.

"I'm sure she's fine. She hasn't called. Why wake her now?" He's glancing around, people still emptying out of the bar, heading off in various directions.

The city night surrounds you like a coat, weighing on your shoulders . Right now you carry the night with you as you walk slowly, the sounds of beeping taxis, rumbling subways, whispers on the street, your soundtrack for the evening. You love the Village, it's always so full of life . . . at all hours. There is always something going on. And right now, you feel like it's your protection, your armor, here to keep you company at a time when you feel . . . unsure.

"What do you say, one more cocktail? And then maybe a quick bite before we head back uptown?" He reaches over a tucks a piece of hair blowing in your face behind your ear. You are (still) surprised by his intimacy.

Okay, but just one. You're feeling guilty about leaving Pearl this long, and she'll be up before you both know it.

You round the corner and eye a bar that is still teaming with people. Look's like you could probably get another one in before last call.

House garners a table outside under the heat lamps and orders two drinks. You light another cigarette. No one will really complain about you smoking outside at three o'clock in the morning, especially at this nighttime establishment. The taste of House is starting to fade from your mouth, tobacco and alcohol are overtaking your tongue. Right now, you think this might be a good thing, because you're not sure what the hell is going on. As much as you want this man, you know it's _complicated_.

You watch House as his eyes travel over the other patrons, walks of every race, sexual orientation and imagination crossing over the threshold. You can tell he is intrigued, his keen observation skills going into overdrive. You're concerned what he might do or say with his combination of alcohol and vicodin, but he keeps quiet, locking away all comments, perhaps for another time. Or maybe he just considers this research time.

You lean back in your chair, crossing your legs under the table, inhaling your cigarette, observing House. You ask him, he didn't really want to celebrate his birthday, did he?

"No," he says looking at his hands, "why would I?"

So, it was just an excuse.

"An excuse?"

You glare at him.

"Yes and no." He sits back and looks at you, blue eyes piercing you. "I really did want to come and see you and Pearl. I just felt I needed a reason."

Other than he missed you both?

"Well, yes, I guess," he shrugs, looking away again, picking up his drink and taking a swig. "Give me one of those." He reaches over a pulls a cigarette out of your pack, quickly lighting one. You eyebrow him, he eyes you back with a smirk.

And his birthday?

"Well, I really wanted to see if the blues bar was still here and I didn't want to go by myself," he smiles wickedly at you.

He could have just asked, you point out to him.

"Yeah, well, that's not really my style."

This is true. He's direct, but indirect simultaneously. Two dichotomies.

"Isn't that my charm?"

What charm? Now your turn to smirk at him - your never-ending game of smirks and eye glares, the facial expressions that you need dictionaries for sometimes. You _never_ have traded those books, though you think you had gotten pretty good at deciphering him when you were in Princeton. You wonder if you were ever really right.

"Ahaha." He swigs again and finishes his drink. "C'mon," he says tossing some money on the table, "Let's get out of here."

Does he still want to get something to eat? Look for a diner?

"Nah, but you know what, let's find a bakery and get some goodies for the morning, some crumb buns and stuff. There's bound to be one open." He grabs your arm as you head toward Seventh Avenue. "I'll make breakfast in the morning," he says, "and I promise, I'll clean it up."

Right, you say to him. You glance up at him, as you let him guide you down the street. You're slightly drunk and too tired to care or argue at this point.

You eventually find a bakery that's open. You stand outside and have another cigarette and make House go in and buy his crumb-buns and donuts. When he comes out, you flag down a cab and uptown you go.

When you enter the apartment, you're running for the bathroom, it's been a long night after all. On your way back to the living room, you peek in on Pearl, who is sleeping soundly, tiny fist curled up by her head. You kiss her forehead, and finger her curls tenderly. House is paying your sitter, Carol. You insist on walking Carol downstairs and paying for her cab ride home, it is after four in the morning after all. She tells you on the elevator ride that Pearl went down a little later than usual. You're guessing from the ice cream. You thank her and send her home in her yellow chariot.

Locking the door, you feel heat behind you. Slowly you turn to face him. He steps toward you, backing you up against the door. Cautiously you lift your head to look at him, because you are not sure what you are going to see, and you're afraid what you might display.

You're not sure what tonight is about. But you like it when he takes your face in his hands and he lowers his mouth toward yours. Your hips involuntarily thrust outward against his as his cool, wet tongue starts licking and exploring your mouth in the most delicious and tasteful manner. You are melting. All this longing you have had for him, all this closeness you have felt with him in the past and you suddenly feel funny about touching him intimately . . . it's something you have never discussed between the two of you. You are hesitant, but you reach up and place your hands around his neck. Your right hand exploring the curve of his jaw and your hand fitting perfectly on his neck between his ear and collar bone, as if it belongs there, you are enjoying the warmth and touch of his skin. 

You know you don't know what you're doing. You wonder if he does. Part of you doesn't care right now. Part of you knows he was right. You are thinking _way_ back to that awful date night (it's in the forefront of your mind because of that damn black dress). Because right now you know that perhaps you don't love, you _know_ that you _need_ . . . but it's a different type of need. You need to feel . . . to be held, to be comforted, to not be alone. Your needs are dominating everything else right now, and you have a huge list of them. Your needs are oppressing the possibility of love. Your relationship with House has so confused you over the years, you are fearful of that love. You have seen his manipulative manners at work. (Is it possible he's just trying to get you into bed?) If so, you _need_ that right now and you'll take it. And you can't think any further than that in some ways. His On-Off toggle switch in your life has left you confused, and you have chosen to ignore it in many ways. If he wants _something_ with you, let him do something about it. You don't want to play any games any more. Because right now, you just _need_ not to feel alone in this world. And your need is the most important thing right now at this moment.

You pull away from him. Turning off the lights, you take his hand and lead him down the hallway to your bedroom. Bringing him inside, you shut the door behind you and lean against it. He is looking around at your room. He turns and faces you. "Are you sure?"

You tell him that you're tired, and that you just don't want to think right now.

"You don't have to think right now," he says, approaching you slowly.

Good, you tell him. Then you're sure.

"Good. I'm sure we'll figure the rest out . . . tomorrow," he finishes, as he closes in on you, dropping his cane to the floor.

You're not so sure about it ever being figured out, but you don't care. You don't care, as you feel his hands on your waist and his mouth hungrily attacking your lips. You are finding that kissing him feels like one of the best in the world (and in ways, it makes you feel like a teenager again, is that so wrong?). God, you love the way his stubble is burning your face, the wetness of his mouth on yours, and the way his tongue tastes. Your hands are stroking the nape of his neck, fingering his hair.

You feel his hands coming up your sides and along your arms, reaching for your hands. Your hands so small in his large, warm hands, he intertwines his fingers in yours, lifts your arms above your head and pins them to the wall. Holding your tiny wrists with his one hand, he reaches for the hem of your shirt and swiftly pulls it over your head and arms, tossing it to the floor. He is in silent, gentle, control here, and you are loving it. He is taking care of you, in a way that you need to be taken care of - in a way that you don't know how to put words or feelings to. His palms on either side of your face, sweeping your hair away as his tongue is working his way down your neck and along your collar bone, you can't help but moan, feel the twitch between your legs, the flood of moisture in your panties. You can do nothing but roll your head back and close your eyes and just enjoy the sensation, the coolness, the wetness, the bristle, the goose bumps, the butterflies in your stomach. He runs his left hand along your breast, down to your waist, bringing you toward him. You let him guide you wherever he may go.

He sits on the edge of the bed. You standing in front of him between his legs. You are surprised by his tenderness. He is running his tongue up your torso, stubble burning and tickling you, you are running your fingers through his soft hair. He unbuttons your jeans and slides them down your hips. You both laugh at the awkwardness of tight jeans and boots and socks, as you lean on his shoulders and he unzips your boots and toss them across the room. You kiss his neck. He murmurs something you don't hear when you nip at his ear. You gasp as he runs his hand between your legs, and he moans when he realizes how soaked your panties are already. You think he's secretly pleased that these panties are lacy also.

You carefully straddle his lap, kneeling on the bed. You unbutton his oxford, pull his T-shirt over his head, run your hands across his bare skin. You love the feeling of his skin under your hands. You are nipping at his neck, inhaling his scent (a smell you can't quite nail down, but whenever you get a whiff of it, it turns you on). You feel his hands running up your back, expertly unhooking your bra.

Right now you are thanking the alcohol. Your inhibitions a bit to the wind. You lean back as he takes a nipple in your mouth, teasing and sucking. You are dying. You want his hand on your clit, fingers in your cunt. It's been a while. And for some reason, you are just ready to go. He switches nipples, twirling your other nipple with his tongue, the first nipple cooling in the air, your hands on his head, his neck, his shoulders, fingers memorizing with touch the feel of his skin and muscle.

He leans you over onto to the bed. You feel naked (well, shit, you know your practically are). But you watch him, stand, toe off his shoes, unbuckle his jeans and slide them down his legs. Standing in his boxers, he hesitates and looks at you.

You tell him to take them off. (You don't look at him like that, like a man with a scar, with a limp, with a cane. You just look at him like a man. A man that you have wanted for a long time.)

He does. And you don't look at his leg - missing muscle or his scar. You look at his erection. And how suddenly you want to put you mouth on his cock. You smile.

"What?"

Nothing, come here. You reach your hand out to him. Amazingly, he takes it, and you pull him on to the bed next to you.

You kiss him, your arms wrapped around each other. You take your hand and run it along the length of his body, finding his cock, wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a small hiss. You smile, pulling your mouth away from his. Rolling onto him, you slide your body down his. Your breasts and nipples being tickled by fine hairs on his chest.

You still don't notice his thigh, even though your hand is on it, even though you run your tongue along the inner part of his leg. You are teasing him. Sucking his balls, licking his inner thighs, inhaling his skin, loving the smell of his pubic hair, so tantalizing. You finally take his shaft in your hand, your tongue swirling along the head of his cock. You lick up and down his cock, before taking him fully in your mouth. You hear him groan and feel his body adjust a bit, his back arching slightly. Even with his cock in your mouth, you smile. You are getting wetter, just at the fact that you are turning him on. You are sucking and lapping and enjoying yourself quite thoroughly (and you're most certain that he is too), when you feel his hands on your arms pulling you up.

"Allison," (he never calls you that!) he says slightly out of breath, "this doesn't need to end so soon, does it?"

You love that he smiles at you, and you climb up the bed toward him, and he pulls you into an embrace. He pulls your panties off, and starts rubbing his hand along your wet folds. You're not used to each other. You put your hand over his and guide him a bit as to where to touch you. You ask him if this is okay. "Absolutely," he says hotly in your ear, as he strokes you and you find yourself moaning louder with each stroke. He seems to have had the map to your body in his possession, because he is finding all the right places. The small spot just below your collar bone that when kissed just makes you break into a million pieces, just a certain stroke along your clit that just about brings you to the edge. You wonder how this is possible, this first time, no previous make-out sessions, no real lack of failure.

The magic of his fingers sliding in and out of you is starting to bring you to the edge. You feel yourself arching up, you are getting louder (you have never been able to help that). He has been working his way down your body, and you know if he places his tongue on your cunt, you'll be gone in a second. (You've never had any self control, not really, it is all a facade.) You stop him, pull him up to you and tell him that you want him.

He gulps. You said it out loud. No taking it back now. He nods. Condoms? (Oh shit.)

A frantic search begins. It's _almost_ comical. Who thought? He's limping back to the living room to search his duffel bag. You're thinking that there might be one or two in the bathroom leftover from when you were with Ryan . . . but god knows if they're any good. Well, worse case scenario, there is either a) no intercourse (but there _are_ other options) or b) a run out to the store. You laugh at yourself as you are pulling apart your bathroom trying to find an old toiletry bag that was Ryan's. Aha. You find one.

You enter your bedroom from the bathroom, he from the hallway, each with a condom in hand. You laugh. The search kind of broke the moment. But what the hell, you start again. And that's pretty good.

Intercourse. You take it slow. You have a hard time at first finding the right position, neither one of you are into daring right now. He wants to see you, watch you. He lifts your hips toward him, as he enters you. That unfamiliar, yet familiar, burn feels so good, you cry out in pleasure. He is deliberate (isn't he always?). Slowly, pulling out and the sliding back into you, you squeezing your muscles around him, he groans. His skin is becoming pink and glazed. You want to lick him. He is biting at your nipples, the feeling making you scream. His thrusts become faster, and harder. Oh god, you are calling out, harder, faster. He obeys, for once. You feel his fingers digging into the cheeks of your ass. There is something about men, just about when they're going to cum, it's like their dick just suddenly enlarges and throbs. And if you catch that feeling just at the right moment, you're gone too. And you catch it. And you're cumming. And you're screaming, and your fists are full of his hair, your back fully arched, nipples sliding against his glistening chest. He's slamming into you, back sweaty, his mouth on your neck, biting you, sucking you.

And you collapse. Your entity pulsating. Your breathing hitched. Your body sweaty. He is on top of you, your arms around him, stroking up his back. And you're good. And you don't want to think. You feel alive, you're breathing. You haven't seen your black hole. You feel strangely safe. He removes himself, and you instantly miss his body. But you are starting to drift in and out of some kind of semi-blissful, almost drugged sleep, and then you feel him crawl back into bed next to you. He pulls you up against his body and into his arms, you feel his flaccid cock against you. He's kissing the back of your head and your neck and inhaling you and your hair. You don't want him to say anything. Because you don't know what to say. You just want to enjoy this moment and just let it be.

You know you are drifting off into sleep, and he must know his too, as he reaches over and turns off the lamp. He hasn't let you go yet. You wonder how long he'll hold you. You're too weak to move. You're too weak to push him away. You are too weak, because you need him in more ways than you can admit. You know you are afraid of waking up. You are afraid of the morning. Has the music ended?

END PT 11


	14. Chapter 12

Title: Tragic - PT 12  
Pairing: House/Cameron  
Rating: R (language)  
Beta: **Yutamiyu** - Very many thanks!  
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV)  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: The (long, awaited) morning after...

After weeks of migraines, I _finally_ have gotten a break! Thank goodness... so that is part of the reason that this part has taken me _forever_. I was also struggling with it. Many many many thanks to **Yutamiyu** for guiding me through this part and being a great beta. I thank you. As always, I hope you all like it (and I hope I won't read it again and find more things I want to fix and/or change! lol!). In many ways, I will always see this as a work-in-progress, so feedback (good or bad) is always welcome of course, I would love to hear your thoughts!

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A static cry over the baby monitor awakens you. Pearl. You feel a mess, heavy; it was too late of a night. You can't quite move yet. God, this is so not sexy. You quickly think back to your younger days, the excitement of young intimacy, when you would be so sensitive to someone new in your bed: the opening of their eyes sometimes wakening you, flickering of lashes as their eyes open. The long, slow awakening, warm touches, leading to heavy breathing, hot kisses, and all-day lovemaking. You are afraid to move. You are afraid of what will happen. Or not happen.

But Pearl is crying, and you have no choice. You are not a college girl anymore; you are a mother. Oh Pearly, you whisper quietly, not quite sure if you will be waking anyone. You reach over and turn off the monitor. You start to sit up.

"Don't get up."

The voice jolts you. You turn your head quickly toward it. House. He is here. This _did_ happen. He's sitting in the chair in the corner of your room near your window. (How long has he been there? Did he sleep at all? You don't feel like you have slept at all.) "I'll get her," he tells you as he pushes himself out of the chair and limps out of the room.

You roll yourself onto your back, trying to wipe the sleep out of your eyes. You hear House talking to Pearl, trying to shush her, quiet movements coming from her room. Your mind is just full of doubts and confusion. You're not sure what to do. You feel frozen on your bed, sucked into the warm coziness of your sheets, naked flesh against soft cotton. Your eyes are open, but you're just not seeing anything yet.

House returns to your bedroom, baby in arms. He hands her to you. You pull yourself up, feeling the need to cover yourself with the sheet, and take her in your arms. He leaves the room again. You feel a little stunned as you hold Pearl close to you, kissing her little head, searching for some sense of comfort in her. She's still a little fussy, you know she's hungry. You lay her down on the bed and grab a T-shirt that was recently discarded on the floor, quickly pulling it over your head.

You glance out your window and see a gloomy sky. In the distance you see the grand Ansonia building, its French influences and curvy limestone overpowering the feeling of you and sky. Right now, part of you wishes that you could be Sydney Bristow and slip into a new alias and go live in a pretend world in Paris or Rome for a little while. Live an international life in an apartment fashioned in grand old European style and opulence. A little fantasy getaway. A little avoidance for the present. But then you hear Pearl coo at you.

You hear the echo of your own heart. You hold Pearl close to you and feel her warm skin against your cheek. You feel blessed that you have her. You feel that she is really just yours, and no one else's. Your baby. If you didn't know better (and weren't atheist) you would have insisted that she was a result of immaculate conception. She grounds you. Especially now, as you feel the roar of the March lion back in your life. Its rough, sharp claws slicing you down your center, filleting you whole.

(You laugh inwardly as you think of the Fates and your child's role in your love life.)

You think of her instinct to love you, her natural attachment to you. How you can walk in a room and she sees you and smiles...a smile that can light up her whole face and your whole soul. And then she gets that excited bounce that indicates she's happy to see you.

Lost in your own thoughts, you barely notice House slipping into the other side of the bed, gingerly taking Pearl from your arms and giving her a bottle. You are somewhat startled and disturbed by his domesticity. At the same time, you never expected to see him walking around in your apartment in boxers holding a bottle, looking all morning-rumpled. You just watch him. You feel very cautious, you don't want to move, afraid that your actions will unsettle _everything_.

He hasn't said anything. He hasn't even looked at you. He's concentrating on feeding Pearl, as if it is so difficult to hold the bottle up to her mouth. This is too weird; besides, you need to move. Okay, you tell him, this is weird. Then you quickly get up and run to the bathroom. You don't want to hear or see his reaction. You want to hide.

You brush your teeth and wrap yourself in the robe hanging behind the door. You can't stay in the bathroom forever. Back to your room.

"Will she fall back to sleep?"

Yes, for a little while. It's early for her.

"Good. We can talk."

You sigh.

"Why do you always run away?"

You look at him. A little confused by the question.

"The bathroom. New York. Whatever. Whenever something is a little off...a little weird."

You tell him you thought he liked weird, you smirk and sit back on the bed. He smirks back at you. You tell him you didn't realize you were running away. (This is kind of funny coming from him; the man you're not even sure has closure from his last relationship).

"Cameron, what the hell happened to your room?" he asks, looking around. "I'd never thought I would say it, but you're living in a pigsty."

You laugh and look around at your boxes. The tornado you left from the other day. You see your black dress is on a hanger hanging from the back of the closet. He's something else, you think to yourself. And a snoop. But you knew that already. You notice the open photo albums scattered around your chair, so that's what he was doing while you were sleeping. You tell him, you just haven't had a chance. That it was going to be your project before he arrived. Then there is the uncomfortable silence between the two of you. Luckily, he breaks it.

"This... this was nice, very nice. And very unexpected." And before you can you can get the words out of your opening mouth he continues, "Unexpected in the sense that I think we both we're surprised." He looks down at Pearl who has stopped suckling at her bottle.

Let me take her, you tell him. He passes her to you, his fingertips gingerly brushing yours, you glance up at him. You want to tell him you're not running away from this conversation. You quickly deposit Pearl into her crib and return to your bedroom. You have to admit to yourself, you like seeing him there. You smile quickly (he doesn't see it) and sit.

"Cameron..." He's hesitant.

You stop him. Listen to me, you tell him, you don't know what this is. You don't know anything right now. You know that you don't know what you can give. You know you can't play any games. You know you like it when he's around... (You know you're broken, and you know you can't deal with him stamping you into smaller bits. You know a little more than you used to know.)

He's shifting around, seemingly uncomfortable. What? He tells you he doesn't know what he's doing.

And though you feel slightly beaten, you look at him strongly and say, that's fine, just remember, you're not a toy. He nods.

Then you ask him where your breakfast is.

While Pearl is taking her little morning nap, and House is preparing your Sunday breakfast, you decide to take a short morning run. You know you haven't had much sleep, but you just need to get some more endorphins into your system to make it through the day. You borrow House's iPod. It starts raining on the way home, and you're cold and drenched. You choose the Beatles on random, and this makes you cry.

You have to stop in a little alcove because you are sobbing and you're not sure why. You pretend like you're stretching so passersby don't think you're totally crazy, as your chest is heaving. Whatever it is, you have to get it all out. You're glad it's raining. You calm yourself down and head back to the apartment.

You enter and see Pearl and House on the floor playing. She's grabbing his nose and he's shaking a rattle at her and laughing. "Hey," he says, "you took too long. Your food is cold."

You're frozen staring at them, dripping on the floor. Sorry, you say. You know what, you're not really hungry, but thanks for cooking. You rush off into the shower. As the steam surrounds you and wraps your shoulder like a blanket, the image of your child on the floor with House is burned in your mind. And you can't help but think that he just wants this because he just wants the unconditional love of a child in his life. _Your_ child. You can't blame him for feeling that way, for desiring that, for _needing_ that absolute.

Something in him must have sparked, because it's about Pearl. His age? Something had to happen. You just can't believe the words he said to you last night anymore. You wonder if he forced them. You feel angry, but confident in your realization. You knew this. But seeing it again and again, more and more, everything he did this weekend was for or about Pearl. Or himself.

You think of the Beatles as you dress. You know House senses that you are uncomfortable and something else. You are acting for the rest of the day, forcing your smile. You are glad when he's paged by the hospital and has to leave early. He was hoping to stay an extra day.

You're both standing at the door awkwardly. The warmth and comfort you were feeling towards House has dissipated into slight anger and mostly hurt. Perhaps you shouldn't feel that way, but you are just raw right now, and your defenses are slightly up. You know he has helped you through a lot, even though you didn't ask him to, and you don't know why; you're grateful, but you still don't trust him as much as you want to.

As he's hugging Pearl to death and saying his goodbyes to her, you take a deep painful breath. Listen, you start -- you can't look at him -- you tell him if he wants to come see Pearl that's fine, and you would not stop that. But if he wants to see you, he better be sure and clear.

You look up at him and see him swallow. You continue and tell him that he needs to make some decisions as to what role your daughter plays in his life and how you fit into it, because as important as she is -- to you both -- she cannot be _the_ reason for something -- a relationship, or whatever this fucked up thing is -- to happen.

This time as he starts to open his mouth, you cut him off and tell him just to think about it. He nods.

He gives Pearl a quick kiss on her curly head and hands her back to you. You are glad for her warm body in your arms. Because even though you feel stronger for what you just said, you feel alone and weakened by it. You know the March lion has definitely returned, and spring is not yet here. As you close the door behind him, you find yourself humming.

_  
Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.  
Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.  
Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly  
Into the light of the dark black night. _

_Lennon/McCartney_

END PT 12


	15. Chapter 13

Title: Tragic - PT 13  
Pairing: House/Cameron  
Rating: R (language)  
Beta: **Yutamiyu**  
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - A Spring Blizzard arrives  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...

Unfortunately, my headaches are back...grr... so, short transition part here...that I feel iffy about... would love to hear feedback/suggestions/thoughts/comments... I do know where I want it to go, so I kind of see this as a transition part, but I don't know...my head isn't exactly screwed on right... also, way behind in responses and catching up on reading other wonderful fanfics that I so love to read (darn headaches)...and I will..b/c I just love them! Happy Holidays everyone! xo _S_

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You are full of nervous energy after he leaves. You need to keep your mind occupied. You know that you are burning your candle at both ends, but you need to do this to tire yourself out, so you crash, so you can sleep, so you don't think. Or feel.

You clean like a fiend. Kitchen. Floor. Counters. Refrigerator. Make sure all the cabinets are clean and orderly. A clean house, the opposite of your mind. You are happy that Pearl is quietly playing by herself in her playpen. You feel a tinge of guilt that you are not spending the rest of the day with her, but you just can't stop. Start the laundry, switch the loads. (You love having a washer and dryer in your New York apartment; you know it's a hot commodity, but it's a life saver for you, a single mom with a baby.) Bathroom. Scrub the tub, the walls, the floor, the toilet, the sink...of course, he had to leave something. You stop your rampage momentarily and eye your toothbrush holder. There is an extra brush mingling in the cup with yours. It's green, relatively new. You pick it up and finger it, deciding whether or not to throw it in the trash or not. You hear Pearl cry. Okay, no trash (for now). Just put it in the medicine cabinet, where you won't have to look at it every day. Quickly wipe the sink and head to your child.

You are exhausted. Evening fell earlier than usual for some reason. You haven't had the television on all day, so you have no idea what the weather will be tomorrow. You were supposed to call Emily and Charles, but you just couldn't. And you turned off the phone. You'll call tomorrow. Right now, Pearl is dreaming away in her crib. You are soaking in a hot tub, bubbles, candles, glass of wine, and a cigarette. You're breaking your own rule about smoking in the house, but you realize you've broken many of your own self-imposed rules this weekend, so what's the difference if you have one or two cigarettes in your closed bathroom? You tell yourself you will trash the pack after the bath.

When the water starts becoming cold, and you realize you're starting to drift, you lift yourself out of the tub and towel yourself off. You're almost afraid to touch your body; it feels so _different_, so raw, so fragile, but you try not to think about it. It doesn't feel like your body. You feel altered. You worry that you won't be able to sleep in your bed. Shit. Your bed. You never changed the sheets. You just avoided your room all day. Let it remain the tornado-ridden land, the place where storms met. God, you're so tired now. And there's not a chance you're sleeping on that couch. You realize if you're going to end up thinking about him in whichever sleeping location you choose, you would rather be in the comfort of your own bed.

Your own bed...for some reason, it just doesn't seem like your bed now. The rumpled and strewn sheets. The smell of sex still permeating the room. Tossed clothes lingering on the margins of your room, black lacy panties twisted on the floor. Stay focused, you tell yourself. You are tired. It's late. You have to go to sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow you will take care of this. Tomorrow.

But tonight, all you can do is smell him on your sheets. Inhale his scent where his head lay. It takes you a bit to realize it, but you're smiling and absently running your arm along the empty side of the bed. You think of his hair and the way it felt against your hand, and how you liked your hand at the nape of his neck, that tender spot that you love, an intimate spot to touch someone, to run your hand along their neck, the place you like to nuzzle your nose and mouth along skin. You _feel_ him, his breath on you, stubble on your skin, arms around you, intertwining legs...

Damn him. Damn him. This shouldn't be so hard. No, you fight with yourself, you are not going to cry again. No. No. No. You struggle with your mind and your senses, and somewhere in your struggle, you fall asleep.

What you didn't know was that you were waking up to snow. A lot of snow. A blizzard. You hadn't watched the news in days. You had no idea. You call the hospital. They decide that you are nonessential and that you should stay home, but they expect you in tomorrow (bearing in mind you can get there) to relieve the doctors who will have been in since Sunday or early Monday.

So, though you normally enjoy the December snow, the last thing you need is another day to yourself to sit and think. Shit. You guess it was a good thing that House left early... What would have it been like if you were snowed in together? You laugh. The Fates are definitely playing with your life somehow, you just haven't figured that part out yet. What are their plans?

You sit in the living room, confined to your apartment, the place that has become the stage to your life, playing with Pearl. Absently staring out the window, you watch the accumulating snow. The snow drifts blowing across the narrow streets, parked cars now looking like sugar lumps in the grey sky. The city has come to a standstill; peaceful, glowing. So different from yesterday. Still so different from how you are feeling, yet the turbulent winds are still so similar.

You make your phone calls. Emily and Charles are thrilled to hear from you, as is their regular response now. They are concerned you sound tired. You tell them not to worry and quickly update them on Pearl and every little new thing she has done in the past week. You try to keep a mental tab running of things to tell them: she tried a new food, she rolled over, sat up, cut a tooth, etc. They're always happy to hear it. You're really glad that the turmoil that you had with them has dissipated into normal grandparent-grandchild relationship stuff. It's so much easier. And you need easy for a while.

The phone rings shortly after lunch. You are wondering if it's House. It's not. It's John. He's calling to say hello and see if you need anything. Well, you're a little short on diapers and hot cocoa, but you'll last until tomorrow, you laugh. He says he's on his way! Do you mind the company? You sit up straight on your couch in surprise. What?

The Midwestern boy in him loves the snow. And he would like to see you, if you wouldn't mind. How about he brings a movie?

Sure. He's making you laugh. And taking your mind off things. Can't be such a bad thing, right?

A half hour later your doorman rings, and you admit John into your secure building. He arrives at your door in layers of flannel, a funny hat and waders. You laugh at him, as he hands you a grocery bag, and he shakes the snow off in the hallway and starts stripping out of his waders.

"Hey. I'm dry," he smiles at you.

You smile back. You're glad to see him. Dealing with him is a little lighter, a little easier. It's a change. And his presence helps you take your mind off other things...at least for a little while. He comes bearing more than just diapers, hot cocoa, and DVD. He fires the stove up and starts cooking you dinner. What does this man _not_ do?

As he is preparing a lovely pasta dish, you are changing Pearl into her PJ's. You have already opened a bottle of wine, and have each enjoyed a glass and you are a bit more relaxed. And you have been laughing and you feel better. It's nice. You are wrist-deep in dirty diaper when you hear the phone ring. You call to John in the kitchen and ask him to answer it; at this time of night, it's probably the hospital calling. You hate it when you're wrong. (And you're starting to realize that you are wrong way too often.)

John rounds the door into Pearl's room and hands you the cordless, saying he must dash back to the kitchen before dinner burns up. He tells you it's Greg House.

Shit. Double shit.

You take the phone from him, cradling it as you finish snapping Pearl up in her pink PJ's. Hello?

"Hi." You wait for the snarky comment. "I just wanted to see how you and Pearl were doing with the weather."

You tell him that you're both fine. You ask him if he got home okay.

He tells you that he did. And that Tate and Donovan are idiots. You laugh.

"So...you have company," he says tentatively.

Yes, you tell him, honestly and strongly. John was kind enough to call and asked you if you needed anything from the store for the baby. You hear him smirk through the phone.

"Well, wasn't that nice of him," he says sarcastically.

Yes, you respond smugly. You don't know how you could have ran out to get diapers with Pearl with you. Silence. Well, you should be going, since you have company.

"Cameron..." he starts.

Yes? You wait. As always.

"It was good to see you this weekend. Thanks for letting me barge in on you. Give Pearl a kiss for me." Before you can respond, he abruptly hangs up. His sincerity surprises you. He's always so quick to cut it short, to not let you respond, like he's appearing so vulnerable to you that you will just stab him and kill him. He's frustrating. _This_ frustration just makes you want to cry. You're tired of crying. They're different types of tears, not always sad, just so emotional. This shouldn't be so hard. You keep thinking this to yourself.

Pearl goes to bed shortly after your clipped phone conversation with House. She's an angel, she's the steady, calm in your life. Though being a mother is demanding and difficult at times, she encompasses you. You are thankful for that.

You enjoy your dinner with John. You drink too much wine and you laugh too much. You know you're forcing it a bit, especially after the phone call and the weekend in general. You put the DVD in but you don't even watch it, you just are talking, which is nice. You like John's warm, pleasant company, his easygoing manner; it's so calming. Inside you feel so stormy. You are masking, you hate masking. You think of your bedroom, the tornado remnants, and know that's what you are, and that you are hidden behind doors.

When John leans in to kiss you, you are startled. Instinctively, you back away. Your hand immediately goes to your mouth. He apologizes. And you shake your head and tell him it's not his fault (it's not). You feel a tear creeping down from the corner of your eye. You lie to him. You tell him you're just not ready; you thought you were, but you're not, and you're sorry. It's been hard having Pearl by yourself, and you have depended greatly on your friends and their support, but you just haven't let go of Ryan (House) yet. He is sympathetic and he understands. When you walk him to the door, he gives you a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek, and with great sincerity tells you that he thinks you're a great person (you hate yourself) and that he hopes that you two can still be friends.

You shut the door behind him. Again, finding yourself trapped within your apartment walls, trapped with the confines of your mind and your body, your spirit withering, your heart in turmoil. You felt like you were _cheating_. Cheating? How could that be? Your body feels shocked. You shut off the lights and head to bed. Fuck the sheets. You strip naked and savor the smells and the touch and the memories as you reach and stretch your body across the span of your bed. You miss him. You do. You hate him and love him. You just don't know what he is. Or what he wants. Or whom he loves. Or how he loves. You hate him for that. You know he is layered, you know he is complicated. Somewhere, in some closed-off cell in your being, you need him. That clam in you is opening and needing light, and touch, and everything else.

You listen to the sounds of the snow in the city. The silence, the wind, the solitude. It is wrapping you into your apartment, like you are wrapped in your sheets, an entanglement that is unreal, a winter wonderland that will turn ugly. Tomorrow, once the city gets moving again, everything will change. The world will no longer be white and peaceful. Everything will be black and muddy and wet and dirty, icy and dangerous. Nothing has changed. Your short interlude is gone.

Somehow, you know that you will go on, with or without him. In sorrow or not, but somehow you will bury all of this into a deep part of you and keep moving along with the dirty, snow-filled city.

END PT 13


	16. Chapter 14

Title: Tragic - PT 14  
Pairing: House/Cameron  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - PT. 14 - Spring Changes - "You survive the slow melt and the mud of the city - you hate to admit it, even to yourself, but you miss him..."  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...

FINALLY! An Update! I know it's been quite a while! I hope you like it! I'm a bit rushing to get it out, so please excuse any typos, etc. (Slap my hand, I didn't have time for a beta, and I almost always need one...I'm horrible!) I also can't keep reading this!

RL has been really crazy so I haven't had much time to work on 'Tragic' until recently. I hope that I was able to get back into the groove of it (is very worried) and would really love to hear your thoughts and commentary... will be working on next part very shortly. Also, for those of you who have been asking, I will be working on 'Cooking' as soon as I can - I've been swamped... and I have some other pieces in the works. Also, I know I'm behind on responding to comments, but I will soon - promise! Thanks as always! And many thanks for your patience!  
S.

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You survive the slow melt and mud of the city. The cold air freezes your mind and emotions in a time warp. During this melting period, you traipse around the city and wonder if your igloo walls to your inner being will dissipate as the sun grows longer and stronger with each given day into spring and just with the sun that is Pearl in your life. And because you hear nothing from him, you allow this spring heat to enter to your stratosphere.

The last contact had with House was the phone call the day of the early spring blizzard. The last communication you initiated with him was a birthday card from you and Pearl for his birthday. You sent a card with a painted palm imprint of Pearl's baby hand as her signature, her curled baby fingers smearing the blue paint on the card. You inserted some pictures of the two of them and their ridiculous ice cream cake; you thought he would like them.

You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but you miss him. You miss the comfort you feel around him. You miss the banter you share, the way he makes you laugh, the way he makes you angry, the way he frustrates the hell out of you, the way he is with your daughter. Just the way he is life, looking at everything with such curiosity, but sadly so afraid to come out and play. You just want to reach out and touch him all the time. Every breath you exhale hurts for him and your want and need for him. It hurts because you keep this entirely buried deep inside you, a deep knot in a locked box, a dark and beautiful creature that lives secretly within you, enlivening you and killing you at the same time. You have pride. And you must keep up appearances. You were never good at letting go. You still aren't. But somehow, somehow, you decide you must move along . . . and just try . . . try to forget, let things fade, like the snow melting into water and draining off into the city sewers.

You let the spring air start to renew you, the mixture of warm and cool breezes and early blooms washing over your body as you push Pearl in her stroller through the park. The ground is freshly green, new grass brightening the cityscape, tulips and daffodils starting to sprout underneath large bushes. The park is alive with people - walking, running, and rollerblading, sitting on blankets - with papers, dogs, and guitars. You want to breathe it all in, feel all this life, but you know it would overcome you; you would overdose on it all. You feel so overwhelmed with emotions and life right now.

You sit on the green bench in your jeans and favorite brown suede jacket; large sunglasses perched on your nose. You feel more city-chic than you have felt before, like you fit in a bit more. You think you are starting to adjust a bit to the city finally, though outside of John, you still don't really have any friends here. You guess everything takes time.

You watch Pearl napping in her stroller facing you. You have had the mostly lovely day with her, playing and strolling. She brings such joy to your life . . . you think of this morning and playing with her. You had baby cereal in your hair, and you were teasing her pretending to eat her precious little foot. She was smiling, with her finger in her mouth, reaching out to touch your face, a gleam in her eyes as she touched your cheek with her damp hand. You mocked that you were going to eat her hand and she giggled like mad. You love your little moments together like this, each day a gives you a little blessing, lesson and treasure. She makes you not mind so much when you get splattered with mud from the snow melt and soft ground. She is your gift.

You lean back in the bench, close your eyes and inhale the clean spring air. You try to clear your mind and relax. It's Sunday, and you're always running a mental to-do list for the week, all the things you need to get ready in the evening for Monday. You wish you had more help . . . and you don't mean hired help. You just feel alone.

You open your eyes to the downing sun, and though you are wearing sunglasses, the sun suddenly feels too strong for your eyes. You have flashes in your eyes that you haven't had in a while. You recognize the feeling and head home.

Sunday evening is always for phone calls. Your head is starting to throb, so you try to keep your calls short. You have your weekly phone chat with Emily and Charles, updating them on every little thing that Pearl had done over the week. You enjoy your relationship with them now; they have become parents to you that you do not have, and hearing their familiar voices have become a comfort. You make plans for next weekend; it will be your first Mother's Day. They will come into the city to see you and Pearl on Saturday (less Mother's Day fuss in all the restaurants) and so you don't have to drag Pearl and all her baby stuff all the way to their house for a day or two. You're looking forward to their visit.

It is late and the evening is now your own. The baby is sleeping. The kitchen is dark and clean. You are lying on the couch with an ice pack in a dish towel deciding if you want to watch Dr. McDreamy or a rerun episode of Law & Order on TNT. The phone rings again disrupting your dark peacefulness. You debate whether to pick it up or not, but you've never been the kind of girl to screen her calls. The dull thud in the base of your skull and up the right side of your head is starting to make your decisions. You can't take the incessant ringing so you answer.

Hello.

"Allison?" Foreman's familiar voice is clear over the phone.

Eric! How are you?

"I'm great. More importantly, how are you? And Pearl? I'm not calling too late, am I?"

No, no, you tell him you were just flicking through the television. He teases you that he never imagined you as a couch potato. You two laugh. You tell him motherhood can be exhausting at times.

You chat for a bit about everything that's been going on, though neither of you mention House. He tells you he's been thinking about you and has been meaning to call for some time, but it always seems so late when he has a chance.

You understand, but you're glad to hear the voice of a friend tonight.

And in all honesty, that is true. The warmth of friend on the phone, though you're not talking about the stone in your stomach, does make you feel better. Well, minus the growing headache. That reminds you . . .

You ask Eric if he can call in a prescription for you, since he was your last prescribing neurologist and you just haven't found a new one yet. You don't feel friendly enough with the rest of the staff to ask for favors yet.

"Sure, what's wrong?"

Oh, you're getting a migraine. It's been a while, but you know the signs. You're sure it's because of the change in the seasons and the weather, which used to get you all the time.

"Are you sure?" He hesitates. "Maybe we should do a checkup first."

Foreman, it's just a little migraine. You tell him you just need some sumatriptan. An Imitrex prescription will do.

"Do you think you need to go back on the Topamax?" he questions you, remembering a period when you were getting really bad migraines and you asked him to be your doctor on the DL.

You don't think that's necessary.

"Do you want to try some new meds I have?"

You tell him you're not interested in whatever it is his girlfriend is selling him now. Last time you tried her latest miracle headache drug it was crap, and you suffered much longer. You just need the Imitrex. He won't make you beg, will he?

He takes the info for your pharmacy and makes you promise that you'll check in with him if it gets any worse and that you'll schedule a checkup with him or another neurologist soon.

You tell him you're making a note of it in your day planner as you speak, you are smiling over the phone.

He bids you goodnight and will call again soon to make some plans. Give Pearl a kiss and feel better.

You are happy for his phone call. You turn off the television, take your ice pack and head to bed. You open your door to your tornado ridden land that you still haven't touched yet . . . you just keep it hidden behind closed doors. The dirty sheets from when House was there lie crumpled up on the corner of your bedroom floor. There's something about your bedroom that you just can't deal with, and you try to spend as little time as possible there. It is no longer your retreat. The memories of intimacy haunt you, and you have great difficulty sleeping. If you didn't have Pearl you would have asked Foreman for a prescription of Valium also. Who knew that you would ever want or need these pills?

You fall into bed with a sigh. A deep exhaustion is taking over you. You hold the cool towel to your head and pray that the pain will be gone in the morning, especially after sleep. You wonder if you will dream of Imitrex tablets dancing in your sleep. The dull thud is bringing a pain that you dread. The rhythm of your own pulse is echoing in your skull. The pain just brings exhaustion, an exhaustion where you sleep in black with no dreams. No dreams are good thing for you right now.

Your week goes by quickly. You are feeling exhausted, but you know it is the consequences of a busy work week, lingering headaches and just not enough time with your lovely daughter who refreshes your soul. You are looking forward to your Saturday brunch, yet you feel funny about being honored for Mother's Day. You have mixed emotions about deserving such an honor. Although you think you're a good mother now, you still worry. You just have no backup, no support, no one to talk to at night in the dark about your worries and fears. Sometimes you shake and cry at night when you are lying in bed, reaching out to an imaginary body next to you, wishing you could vocalize to someone, just to get it out of you. Therapy sometimes just isn't enough. Your life is too complicated.

Emily and Charles arrive Saturday, bright and sunny just like the spring air. You enjoy popovers and French toast and many other goodies you wouldn't normally indulge in at brunch. The three of you stroll around Manhattan, Emily's arm slung into yours like that of an old girlfriend. You actually enjoy her warmth, and the proximity of her perfume. Pearl's grandparents love to spoil her rotten and give her new toys and clothes. What she loves the most is their attention: their warm hands lifting her out of the carriage and toward their faces for kisses. Arms lift her body up into the air for a shake with baby coos where she giggles and drools. She seems to be recognizing them, loving to touch Charles' shiny head when he's holding her above him, and reaching for Emily's blond fluffy hair when she's giving her a bottle. And even though you hate what you went through, what they put you through, and it pains you to think about it, you are glad that you have this little extra bit of sunshine in your lives now - for you and for Pearl. You are starting to learn that sometimes the difficult things turn out to be wonderful gifts.

You are sad to see them leave. It has been a long day, which you spent enjoying the city, walking every where you could. When the sun began to set and cool the air, you all retreated to your apartment for tea and snacks. It is necessary they leave before it gets too late. They need to get back to the dogs. You enjoyed their visit immensely. They brought the traditional mother's day gift of chocolates and a plant, your apartment does need some greenery, so you're very appreciative of the gift. You make plans to go visit them in a few weeks. You reluctantly close the door behind them. Your apartment becomes colder and empty, and so do you.

You awake Sunday morning and decide to spend the day in your pajamas hanging out with Pearl. You have a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee and spread the paper out before you, reading whatever sections you can in between playtime and naps with your daughter. Your day is eerily quiet. You keep looking at the phone, urging it to ring, hoping, praying that maybe, just maybe, House might call you and wish you a Happy Mother's Day. You try to pretend that you don't really think this. But you do. You know he won't; he would never do something like that, so sappy, so out of character. But the stillness is calling out for your phone to ring. You turn the TV up louder to cover the still feeling.

Around three o'clock you have a surprise visitor from Princeton, Dr. Wilson. And though you're still in your pajamas, you admit him to your apartment with surprise. You are happy to see his familiar handsome face.

You ask him what he's doing here.

"Yearly tradition," he looks at you sheepishly. "I take Julie and her sister to Manhattan for a ridiculously expensive brunch and then they go shopping at Barney's on my AMEX card."

You look at him quizzically.

"Don't ask," He tells you, "It's my penance for my sins and that we _don't _have children."

What is he doing here?

"Oh yeah, I told Jules I had a consult at Sloan-Kettering."

That's not what you meant, but thanks for sharing. (More lies for Wilson.)

"Oh," he pulls a packet out of his pocket, "Foreman wanted me to bring you these, he said to just give them a try."

You smirk at him and reluctantly take the package of samples from his hands. Ah, the latest drugs from his lovely drug rep. The ones you weren't interested in taking. You smile anyway.

"Is everything okay?"

You tell him you're just having a few headaches, just from the seasonal weather changes. It's nothing unusual; you usually get some bad migraines when the seasons change. You just don't have a new neurologist yet, and you needed some prescription renewals. You assure him not to worry.

As he makes himself at home in your living room and starts to play with Pearl, you throw on a sweatshirt and put on a pot of coffee. You settle Pearl into her ExerSaucer (her new favorite toy), and curl into the couch with your coffee, preparing yourself for whatever is _the real reason _Jimmy Wilson, best friend of Dr. Grumpy, is here. You know he's taking a little side trip to see you for some reason, not just out of the goodness of his kind, yet often lying, heart.

You tell him it's good to see him. The two you make small chitchat about your new life in the city, your new job under the tutelage of Dr. Silver, the growth and changes in Pearl. You talk about the changes of PPTH and some of the minor goings-on. You know he's avoiding the elephant in the room, the reason he's really here, which you both know is House.

So, you ask him, why is he _really _here? Not that you're not happy to see his charming face, but you just feel like it's under false pretenses.

He tells you that you've aged and become wiser than you sometimes let on, a smile curling through his lips as he speaks.

You wait patiently for him to make his move in this new chess game.

He sighs. "Honestly, I really wanted to see how you were doing." He looks up at you; his eyes are dark and perplexed.

Why? You ask him. You're doing fine. And he could have picked up the phone. What is he not telling you?

He hesitates, so you know you're on target. "It's just that . . . not that this shouldn't surprise you . . . but it's just that House has been, well, different since you left - more difficult, no surprise there, more cranky, more daring, more introverted. In the last few weeks, he's been especially despondent, almost angry, and quiet. He barely talks to anyone, even me."

You look at him with some surprise, but mostly out of concern. You're not sure how to respond to Wilson. You ask him what does this have to do with you.

"Allison, don't play stupid with me, I know he came to see you and Pearl. He tried to pretend like he didn't go away for the weekend, but it was obvious, there is not a lot he can hide from me, I've known him for too long."

You sigh and look out the window, your eyes floating over the rows of buildings and streets. You try to focus your mind on counting streets and avenues, then windows and lights, trying to maintain some sort of analytical process, because you don't know if this – this thing with House - is something that you can figure out the equation to.

"What happened?"

You tell him that you think he should talk to House about that.

"If I was able to get an answer from him, do you think I would be here trying to talk to you right now? And if I wasn't worried about his well being, I wouldn't be trying to pry answers out of you either. Trust me, to an extent, whatever happens between you two is between you two."

You look at him sheepishly, at a total loss of words.

"Allison, you two have always had some kind of special bond, some odd friendship, let's be frank. And the last year or so, you both have _shared _a lot in your own ways. He needs your help right now. Whatever happened, I need you to reach out to him and let it go."

Jimmy, it's not that simple and it just doesn't work that way, it's not about forgiveness.

"I'm not talking about forgiveness. He needs you in his life more than he'll ever be willing to admit, even to himself. He covers it by loving Pearl with a new found vigor in children; he loves this tiny extension of you right now because it's just easier for him to deal with. Do you think you can just try reaching out to him? Just be there, even if you don't talk? I think he would accept that from you. I think, in an odd way that would be a comfort to him. It might balance him out a bit, put him back to his regular snarky self."

You want to cry, because you're just not sure what to do, and everything that House encompasses to you now just screams emotional. And he can barely deal with anything emotional. A logical part of you thinks you should run screaming in the other direction. The other part of you wants to go immediately to him with your daughter in your arms to be with him. What are you thinking? You feel mad. Drugged. Illogical.

Wilson looks at his watch and says he must be going. "One more thing, I found this, I thought you might like it."

Out of his breast pocket he pulls out a card. It is crumpled and has been taped back together. You look at him as you tentatively accept it.

"I had a feeling I knew what he was doing, or trying to do. I thought it was worth salvaging." Jim looks as you seriously. "Think about calling him or even going to see him, I think he would appreciate more than he would ever say, though I'm sure he'll berate you for it." He smirks.

He gives you a hug, and kisses you on the forehead. You are stunned and glued to the couch. He ruffles up Pearls happy head and lets himself out the door.

You examine the card in your hand, turning it over before you open the fold. You ignore the preprinted statement and go directly to the written words. _Dear Cameron, Happy First Mother's Day. You're a great mom, don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise, even me. Always, G.H ._You drop the card in your lap.

You decide to clean your room tonight. It's time to deal with the aftermath of the storm. You are not the only one who deserves it. It's time.

END PT 14


	17. Chapter 15

Title: Tragic - PT 15  
Pairing: House/Cameron ?  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - Gambling - To go to Princeton or not...  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
Note: S2 does not exist in this story.  
Beta: Many many thanks to the wonderful, lovely, patient **yutamiyu**! xo

Note: Sorry for the delay! This was a difficult chapter to write! And very long! I am hoping that after the delay of finishing this chapter, you are still interested in reading it! The ending was difficult to write - and part of the reason it took me so long to finish! Would love to hear your thoughts & comments (good or bad!) - and I will try to answer all comments as soon as I can. I will try my best to get 16 done as soon as possible, I've already started writing it... but it's all about time! Darn real life always getting in the way! I hope everyone is well! _S_.  
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Sometimes you realize that you don't always make the wisest decisions. But hindsight is always, 20/20 right? You go back to that old thing your mother used to say to you, sometimes things happen for a reason. Right now you are wracking your head for all those reasons. Your mind going through events and details, looking at clues in different lights for any answers, everything becoming fine tuned, yet at the same time so much more confusing, and your heart just muddled.

You sat at the poker table, even though you've never had a good poker face. And you hate that you used your daughter to sweeten the pot. You know this makes you a bad person, especially when you are bad at playing poker. You never really knew the rules, understood when to hit or stay and your eyes... your eyes always gave everything away. You were never good at detaching yourself...from anything.

You didn't immediately do what Wilson wanted you to do: you sat on it. You thought about it, you mulled over what you were going to do. Two weeks later, you send House an email you know he would never read, pack as lightly as you can, get out of work early and haul ass on a late afternoon train out of Penn Station headed for Princeton for a little surprise visit. Why not play House's game on House himself?

You arrive in a taxi to the front of his townhouse, a cozy home flanked by similar bricked and limestone beauties; a home that brings back some good and bad memories for you. You are nervous and your heart is beating a little fast. You haven't thought this plan out too much, which may or may not be a good thing; your biggest decision was whether or not to make a visit. If he's not home, you'll be screwed. You wonder how similarly he felt when he came to visit you. You laugh to yourself over those thoughts; with his ego and arrogance, he probably didn't worry at all.

As you exit the taxi, you put Pearl in her stroller. You lock the wheels, place the stroller at the front of the door, ring the bell, and go back to the taxi to pay the driver and retrieve your weekend bags. As the driver pulls away, you turn around to face a startled House. It's a look you haven't seen before.

Hi. You smile at him. Surprise!

"Hi." He starts to bend down to pick up Pearl out of the carriage. "What are you doing here?"

You tell him that you and Pearl missed Princeton, and wanted to get out of the city for the weekend for some fresh air. So you thought you would both come for a visit, and didn't he get your email? You smile at him as you brush past him as you enter through the doorway.

He looks stunned and immobile, confused and ruffled. With Pearl in his arms, he wheels the stroller inside and closes the door behind him.

You ignore the pleasantries of trying to ask him how he's been or why neither of you have communicated with each other in a while. It's obvious, and you both know it. There is a time and a need to discuss it, and it is not now. So you carry on with your happy façade and allow him to be confused by your presence.

Right now Pearl is remembering his face, and touching his nose and drooling on him as he holds her up in the air. He has a little smile on his face, a little gleam in his eye that you remember seeing when he has the satisfaction of solving a case and he's pleased. You're happy because this is part of the reason you came here, to be a friend and to bring a little brightness into his world. You said you would never keep Pearl from him, and he hasn't reached out recently to see her, and you feel you needed to find a middle ground _for him_. That's what you try to tell yourself right now. You know the situation is difficult, but you know it's good for him. You try not to think of what Wilson said to you, though his words are memories in your head echoing like voices in a canyon repeating in varying strengths and weakness, never quite seeming to fade.

You don't mention his card or Wilson's visit. You don't think House would appreciate either. Besides, it would automatically put him on the defensive and it's too early in the weekend for that. You do want to try to enjoy your time here. You know that you are ignoring a lot of things, but he's done so much for you; you just keep thinking about what Wilson said.

You make yourself right at home in his home, like you've been life-long best friends; you just jump right in. You're sure this makes him slightly uncomfortable, but nothing about this weekend is going to scream comfort, including your visit. You are trying not to look at him too hard, because you want to glue yourself to his body, tie his arms around you like ribbons. You ache. You hate that he looks a little thinner than last time you saw him, that he looks even more tired than usual, dark circles under his eyes overpowering his face with shadows. You just want to reach up and run your hands across his cheeks, feel his skin underneath yours and pull him tight to you. You realize you're holding your breath. You exhale as you put your bag down.

He shows you to the guest room where you deposit your belongings. Everything is a mess, typical bachelor pad. He tries to apologize, you shush him, after all, you did surprise him, and you don't care anyway, you didn't come here for the décor. You are throwing him your biggest and brightest smiles, but he is deflecting them, just looking at you with such confused eyes. You are going to try your hardest to maintain a sunny disposition, no matter what, that is your plan (you repeated this mantra to yourself the entire train ride to Princeton).

"Cameron, where is Pearl sleeping? Don't you have one of those portable bed things?"

You do, you explain, but it was too much for you to carry by yourself on the train and everything. You'll just put her in the bed with you and be real careful. That's all.

You look at him like you just gave him the easiest answer in the world, but he looks dark and complex. He leaves the room, mumbling there are linens in the closet. You start worrying that perhaps this visit might be a mistake. You refresh your mind and _try try try _to think with the positive attitude you know you'll need to survive (or you will kill Wilson for this).

You return to the living room to find Pearl and House sitting on the floor playing with her favorite cups. She loves these colorful plastic cups that fit one into another. She's just fascinated by them. House seems equally fascinated as she takes them apart and tries to put them back together again. You sit on the couch and curl your feet underneath you watching them both.

When Pearl succeeds in her mission with her colorful cups she knows it and claps and giggles. House's face is awed by her delight and her achievement. Immediately, she takes the cups apart again, scatters them in front of her and tries to put them together again as if she just hadn't done it. He turns to look at you. You smile. "She's getting so big. She's so smart. I can't believe she just put all those cups back in order."

You tell him it's her favorite little puzzle, that she likes puzzles. You give him a sly and knowing wink.

You ask him what he wants to do for dinner. Does he have anything in the fridge, you wouldn't mind whipping something up.

"Nah," he shrugs, "I've been busy at the hospital the last few weeks, I haven't done much food shopping. In fact, I may need to run out and get milk for the baby later. So, how 'bout we order Chinese for old times sake?"

You nod in agreement. You pick Pearl up, and follow House into the kitchen. You put a bib on daughter to feed her some sweet yams that she loves. You sit with her at the kitchen table, Pearl in your lap, cups spread out on the table in front of her. You want to keep the mess to a minimum.

"Hey, you want the same?"

Uh huh.

"Okay," he picks up the phone. "Hey, it's a different place now, the other one burned down. But...I can probably bribe the delivery guy into picking up a quart of milk."

You look at him, confused.

"Trust me," he assures you, "we're on a first name basis. Whole or low fat?"

The Chinese food arrives, with the milk, and House tips Juan generously. It's starting to drizzle outside, and the damp air is starting to permeate the house. You change Pearl into her PJ's, as you hear House making lots of noise in the living room, throwing things around, things falling with a thud on the floor. You wonder what he's up to.

You bring Pearl back into the living room and find a flickering fire going in the fireplace and dinner (with plates, silverware and napkins) set at the coffee table. You are surprised by this. He comes back from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and two glasses in his hands. "Wine?"

Sure, sounds good. You smile, slightly nervous all of a sudden. You tell him you need to make Pearl a bottle, you'll be right back.

He puts the wine and glasses down, "Gimme," he says, motioning with his hands for you to hand him Pearl. You do. "Hiya munchkin. You tired yet?" You hear as you head to the kitchen.

When you return, House is settled on the sofa with Pearl and her bunny blanket -- a necessary item for her sleepy time -- you're surprised he remembered. He reaches toward you to take the bottle from your hands. You realize he enjoys this time with her much more than you remembered. You sit on the floor, pour the wine, and start sipping.

You know she'll drink half the bottle and be out in ten minutes. Like clockwork, your angel sucks down half the bottle, her bunny blanket half covering her face, her little eyelids becoming heavy, and her mouth still moving. And then she stops, milk still gracing her mouth. You get up, wipe her mouth with a napkin and take her from House to go put her down. He looks disappointed when you remove her warm little body from his arms. You can't look at him. You quickly walk to the guest room and nestle Pearl into the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows. You tuck a blanket around her and kiss her head, inhaling her scent one last time.

You head back to the living room, suddenly feeling like you're on a date. That's the last thing you want to feel right now. You're wondering how you can avoid that.

You can see House was either thinking the same thing or just doesn't give a damn, because when he hears you in the hallway he suddenly starts breaking into the Chinese, dishing noodles onto his plate and into his mouth. Okay, back to normal, and that you can deal with. Obnoxious House, grumpy House, that's good, that's normal. _That_ you can keep at arm's distance for now. You sit crossed legged on the floor and dig in. You're starving.

"Hey, there's crap on TV Friday nights," he says, and tosses the remote on the coffee table. "Anything you want to watch? We can put a movie in."

Sure, whatever he wants, you shrug.

"How's the new hospital treating you?"

Good, you tell him. It's different, the people that is. You've been busy, but you've been doing much more research than you were doing before. The staff is very large, and not quite as friendly. Maybe it's just different for you now, because socializing is not in the top of your priorities; it's just getting home to see your baby.

"Well, David Silver is an excellent doctor," he says, staring at his dinner.

Yes, you feel lucky to be working under him. Unfortunately, he seems to be traveling a lot presently, giving lectures, etc., so you haven't gotten to know him too intimately.

He raises an eyebrow at you.

Stop it! You tell him and slap his knee. You both laugh. You ask him how PPTH is.

And then the stories begin, the torture that Cuddy has put him through recently, the idiotic things Tate and Donovan have done recently. They're no Foreman and Chase, he says as an aside. You smile to yourself and say nothing. You know he hasn't hired anyone for your position yet. Well, no one that he's kept. Better not to discuss that. He humors you with ridiculous clinic patients. And then quizzes you on what your thoughts are on some of their recent complicated cases. You continue to sip wine, and before you know it, it's after eleven and you've drank two bottles of good Cabernet Sauvignon. You start hoping to yourself that Pearl will decide to sleep in tomorrow.

You know you need to end this night, and go to bed. There is that awkward silence. Someone needs to make a move. You get up and pick up the dirty plates and head to the kitchen. You hear House throwing empty cartons in the delivery bag. You rinse and wash the plates, placing them on the drying rack. You turn to see what else might still be on the table, and you're startled to see House in the kitchen watching you.

"So, why are you really here?"

You're feeling the effects of the wine, so standing straight for a long time isn't going to work. You hold onto the counter. You tell him what you told him earlier that you just needed to get out of the city and get some fresh air. Besides, you don't really know anyone still in the city and you were both feeling a little lonely, and you thought that Pearl would like to see him. You smile. You know you're rambling now.

"Did you want to see me?"

Yes.

He looks down. Maybe that's not the answer he was looking for, which confuses you, but you're honest.

Did he want you not to want to see him?

(Oh, no, this is not the time for a conversation for you. You will just make a mess of everything. More of a mess than it already is.)

"I don't know." He finally looks up at you. "I don't think we should talk about this  
now."

You agree, nod your head, and try not to think of his words.

You stumble past him to hurry to the guest room. He grabs your arm. You look at him; you know your face is flushed.

"Well," he starts hesitantly, "I guess, I am glad that you guys decided to come and surprise me."

He looks at you with his startling blue eyes. The distance between is so intense you're afraid to break it. You know how hard that was for him to tell you.

Good, you nod and try to give him a little smile, you better be off to bed. You tell him to think about what he might want to do tomorrow, as you walk down the hallway, trying to ignore the heat on your face, the intensity in your eyes holding back emotional tears, the feeling of his hand on your arm.

You ignore your normal bedtime routine. You throw your nightclothes on, leave your clothes crumpled on the floor, and you don't brush your teeth. Pearl is sleeping soundly, and you curl in next to her. Luckily you're exhausted and have had enough wine to knock you out as soon as your head hits the pillow. You don't want to think. You hear the soft tinker of piano keys as your mind fades.

You are woken out of a dead sleep by a piercing pain radiating in your head. Oh no, you think to yourself. Instinctively, you curl into a fetal position and hold your head. There are flashes in your eyes, you start fighting the feeling of nausea. You are rocking yourself, hoping not to wake Pearl, breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth. What the heck happened? You didn't drink _that_ much. Then it dawns on you... MSG, sulfates from the wine, the rain, and, well, just stress. Migraine. You know the difference between a hangover headache and the piercing pain that is invading your skull.

Your feet touch the cool floor, your hand glides along the wall as you make your way down the hall to the bathroom. You hope you don't wake anyone and you hope you make it in time. You do. Thank goodness. You keep the lights off, because you can't handle the brightness burning into your eyes. You lay with your head against the cool tile floor, hoping to calm your stomach. You get up enough strength to get yourself back to your room, cool wet washcloth in your hand.

You tear open your bag looking for your Imitrex. After dumping its entire contents on the floor, all you could find were the samples of the new drug that Foreman sent you. You curse yourself for forgetting the Imitrex, and you'll kill Foreman if this stuff  
doesn't work. You dry swallow the pill, curl back into bed, and cold washcloth over your eyes and forehead. The pain knocks you out and you shiver back to sleep.

Pearl starts fussing about two and half hours later. You can't blame her for not wanting to break her schedule, but today you wish that she knew how to sleep in on a Saturday. The pain in your head hasn't dissipated. You're going to kill Foreman. You're having a difficult time changing her diaper; your sensitivity to scent is high right now. It takes you twice as long as usual. You hand her a pacifier, and run to the kitchen to dispose of dirty diaper, make a bottle and get an ice pack.

You vomit in the sink. This migraine is getting you good. You can barely keep your eyes open in the grey morning sky. From all the way in the kitchen, you can hear Pearl starting to cry. You start to whimper to her to 'shush baby,' like she's going to hear you. You rinse the sink out, and pour a bottle. You hate that you two are probably waking House up.

As you are rushing in the hallway, he is halfway to your room. "What the hell is going on?"

She's hungry, you explain.

"Why didn't you take her to the kitchen with you?"

You just can't right now, you try to explain, feeling woozy again. Here, you say, handing him the bottle, can you give her this, and you'll be right back.

After you return to the bathroom, looking three shades whiter than pale, dark circles under your eyes, your hair a tangled mess, you find House and Pearl lying in bed having a bottle.

"Cameron, what the hell happened in here?" he laughs, looking around at the disheveled mess, and emptied bag.

Not now House. You start to crawl into the other side of the bed.

"Wow, I thought you were a better drinker than that."

You are. You're not hung-over.

"Right."

Right.

You pull a pillow over your head. You hesitate, and then you tell him you need to ask him for a favor.

"Okay."

You need an Imitrex prescription pronto.

"Imitrex?"

Yes. Sumatriptan. He's familiar?

"Seriously?"

Seriously. House, can we stop this? You're desperate.

You start explaining the triggers that occurred MSG, wine sulfates, etc. And you forgot your prescription.

"I didn't know you got migraines."

You tell him he doesn't know everything. Well, and you've kept it under control for a while.

"Who's your neurologist? Why not call them?"

It's Foreman. You left the damn thing in the city, and the samples he gave you are for the birds. If you take another one, you won't be able to take the Imitrex.

"Okay."

Thank you.

You feel the bed move as he gets up. "You going to be okay?" He picks Pearl up.

Yes, please no more talking.

"Have you had them this bad before?"

Yes, but not for a while.

"Okay," he pauses, "well, I'll take Pearl with me since we're both awake and we'll watch cartoons. Does she get anything else for breakfast?"

As you fade back into pained sleep, you mutter, yes, some Cheerios and a jar of bananas in the diaper bag...

You feel like you blinked your eyes and you're being jostled lightly by House, who is trying to roll the sleeve up on your nightshirt. You feel a pinch. You know he got you a shot of Imitrex. You hear him ask you if you want a new icepack. You mutter yes, and fall back into the darkness, the feeling of large veins gripping your head like in some horror movie and devouring your brain. The coolness makes it feel better. You hope the Imitrex will attack. You fade again.

You hear birds and cars. You roll over and glance at the clock. It's almost four in the afternoon. The pain is gone. You feel drained, and empty. You sit up slowly. There is a glass of water on the bedside table. _House_. You are glad it is there and drink greedily from it. You heave yourself out of the bed, bare feet on the wood floor. You look in the mirror and try to rub the sleep from your eyes, brush your hair and gather it into a neat ponytail. You are cold. You throw on a sweatshirt. You creep to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You feel _so_ much better, just weak.

You enter into the living room where you hear the sound of a faint television. House is lying on the couch, Pearl across his chest, both of them taking a nap. You feel a twinge in your heart. And you feel guilt. He's been taking care of you. Both of you. Again. And all day. You notice the stroller near the front door, wet droplets on the cover. He took her for a walk. You smile to yourself, and go to the kitchen for something to drink and hopefully a piece of toast.

You open the fridge. You're shocked to see color in there: fresh greens and vegetables, eggs, juice, chicken. He went food shopping too. You smile. You pull out the juice, pour yourself a glass, and rip the end off a fresh loaf of French bread. You go back into the living room to watch the two of them sleep. You feel like you can do that for hours. Watch these two mysteries sleep and breathe, both of them serene and peaceful in their slumber, but with lightly clenched fists as if they're holding onto something...

You feel a little guilt; guilt for having imposed yourself and Pearl onto House this weekend; guilt for you being sick today and him having to take care of Pearl _and_ you. You're sure it's not what he bargained for. You watch the two of them napping on the sofa, the lull of their breathing mesmerizing you, yet you feel guilty. He is not her father. You have never felt that he was and you have never looked at him in that light. You are not quite sure how he sees his role. You are selfish; you see Pearl as solely belonging to you, though you don't mind sharing her with her others. You don't expect him to be her father; you never did, not now, not ever. Throwing him into today's scenario is suddenly making you uncomfortable. Yes, you are aware he has taken care of you before and yes, even Pearl. But in ways, to you, _that_ was so different. Your head wasn't screwed on right, and she was an infant. Her personality is so much more developed now; your relationship and bond with her so instinctual, so loving, so possessive.

You begin to regret your decision to come to Princeton. Damn Wilson! You need to put Pearl first. You need to sweep House out of your brain. You arise from the chair and tip toe over to the couch. Gently you lift Pearl off House, cradling her in your arms, and retreat to the guest room. Neither wakes. You try not to wonder if House noticed the disappearance of warmth on his body, you know he deserves it. You put Pearl in the cradle of pillows and head to the bathroom for a quick shower.

A hot shower has always been a great thinking retreat for you, something about the pouring of hot droplets over your shoulders massaging knots of stress off your frame. You contemplate taking a train back to Manhattan tonight, maybe this was a mistake, a total mistake. You just can't think, your head full of clouds, you think you're still in a daze from your earlier migraine horror. Your emotions are so conflicted by such a desire to _be_ here, and such a desire to run. Rinsing warm soapy water from your hair, you hear a sharp knock on the bathroom door that wakes you out of your warm wet thoughts.

Yes?

"Cameron," House opens the door a bit, you feel the cool air rushing in. "You hungry?"

Hmm...yeah, a bit...

"Did you get yourself some clean towels?"

No. You forgot.

"I'll get you some."

He returns momentarily, you peak out from beyond the shower curtain and see him place them within reach for you. You smile at him, but you're some what surprised by his presence in your bathroom space.

Thanks.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, leaning against the sink.

Much better. Thanks.

You laugh inwardly, thinking back to too often when he has entered this space where you are in a vulnerable place. Not really time for a conversation, any conversation. At least not for the two of you. Not right now. Other circumstances perhaps...

You turn the water off and reach for a towel, and start toweling off. Blue gray towels soft against your skin, as you dry your face you smell the familiar scent of home. You quickly try to drop the thought and wrap the towel around your head.

"Okay," House drags out, "well, dinner will be ready soon."

You step out of the tub, and wipe the steam from the mirror. You don't recognize yourself in the mirror for some reason. Dark tangled hair around pale face and deep-set eyes; your eyes look disturbed, just not like you. You finish in the bathroom and get ready for dinner.

You go back to the living room afresh with a newly awaken Pearl, who's bright eyed and pink-cheeked. House is sitting on the sofa, flipping through channels, and the room is filled with the aroma of cooking dinner.

Hi.

"Well, hello girls," he says dryly, not removing his eyes from the television. "Everyone feeling more refreshed?"

You put Pearl on the ground to play with her cups. She doesn't want to play and puts her arms up to you, fussy noises coming from her. You sit on the other end of the couch, Pearl snuggled quietly in your lap, you put your hand on her head to smooth out her curls.

Yes, you respond.

"So, between one being the best and ten being the worst, how bad was the migraine today?"

Oh, about a nine. (You lie, a little bit. Does half a point count?)

He lowers his chin to himself. "Don't you think you should go the neurologist for a checkup?"

It's not neurological, you say, glaring at him. He's knows that, you know that.

"But, it was pretty bad."

Yes, but you don't get them often, and you haven't had one like that in a while.

"An even better reason to go."

You look at him. You're not going to argue about this with him. You'll speak with Foreman. You thank him for the sumatriptan.

He grumbles that you make him back down off the neurologist issue, and tells you he made Tate deliver the sumatriptan from the hospital. And then he snickers. (Tate must be his new Chase.)

You start to apologize for putting him the position of having to take care of you and Pearl today. He doesn't listen to you and gets up and heads to the kitchen. He calls that dinner is ready and to come sit at the table.

You feel like you can count the number of times the two of you have sat at a table to eat -- there hasn't been too many; too many meals have been eaten in front of the television, on the go, during meetings. This is almost a presentation put before you -- an unusual mixture that is making you homesick and needy. You wheel Pearl in her stroller close to the table, feeding her jarred beets and handing her toys, and alternate to the delicious dish in front of you.

House is unusually quiet. You know he's not one for small talk, but this is even quiet for him. You prepare yourself for whatever onslaught is stirring around in his brain, you are sure it will spill out at some point.

"Cameron?" (So it begins.)

Yes?

"Why did you come here?"

To visit. You thought he might like to see Pearl, you told him that before. (You decide to leave out the rest about wanting to see him too, you are nervous to dip your toes in that water, it's not always so easy with him.)

"Hmm." He's contemplating, moving food around on his plate. He looks at Pearl, who is smiling at him, beets on her cheeks.

"Did you always want to have children?" he asks.

You stop chewing and raise an eyebrow. You guess, it just seemed natural to you that you would -- at least one day -- although that one day caught you by surprise.

"Are you sure you didn't get pregnant on purpose?"

Excuse me?

"Well, you're always looking to take care of something. It wasn't me -- it couldn't be, and Ryan didn't need it. Why not create something that would need it?" He states so matter-of-fact.

You look at him with astonishment. You thought he knew you better than that. You harshly reply that if you were so _desperate_ you could have adopted a puppy instead.

"That's cute!" he mock laughs.

Your face burns red. House! Why is he asking this?

"Because I think, really, in your twisted desperation to show that you care and love by taking care of someone, in all honesty, you're the one who needs and wants to be taken care of."

Is this about this weekend? You shake your head in mild frustration. You're sorry to have put him in the position you did today, it was totally a freakish occurrence.

"Cameron, I think you like it when I take care of you, when I'm around."

The cards are out on the table. Poker. Texas Hold 'em. You have no idea what he's hiding, but you're starting to see what you're playing against and you know what is in your hand.

House, you urge...try to explain, you _like_ him around, there's no doubt of that. You came here this weekend because you thought that it would make him happy to have Pearl around, and that makes you happy. (You ante up. You don't realize that you have a shitty hand. And a bad argument.)

He calls.

"Cameron, I think you have daddy issues."

Your eyes widen. What? What is he talking about?

"I think it's not that you want me to be around, but just an older man, someone who might seem like a comforting presence to you, more like a father figure is what you want and need. And that's not me."

You start to laugh. You ask him if this is a joke.

He is looking at you straight-faced.

You are confused. You are wondering why and how he could be thinking such things about you. Besides, you've barely discussed your husband or even your family with him.

Suddenly, memories of your bedroom start to flicker in your mind. Open photo albums sprawled in front of your arm chair; pictures of your dead husband and the family that disowned you (but that you still love) staring up at you from the carpet. You feel the blood drain from your face, anger taking over in the sense of a white mask of a pantomime. He played his cards well; you had no idea what he was holding. You thought he was bluffing. You think of cleaning up your tornado, fingering that cursed black date dress that he had taken from the floor and gingerly unwrapped from its tangled tossed mess and hung on a hanger, like a sacred relic; the photo albums open exposing your history without words -- assumptions being made -- photos taken from their place holders. At first you were puzzled by the empty spots, but you figured you must have taken the photos out at some point. Now you know House took them -- to pour over them, to examine, to look for something - at something he didn't understand.

You stand abruptly, knocking over the chair. Pearl is startled, little baby lashes flicking fast against her pink cheeks. You very loudly tell him you want your photos. Now.

He pushes up from the table and limps away. You quickly spoon the remainder of the beets into Pearl's mouth, wiping her cheeks and taking her out of the carriage. She is startled by your rushed and angered movements and starts to cry.

He returns and hands you six photos. "You told me you had no family left; that was a lie."

No, it wasn't, you reply. _If_ he had asked you instead of making presumptions, you would have explained.

You grab the photos out of his hands. There are two pictures of you and your husband, one old family portrait, one of you and your father, one of you and Pearl and one of Pearl as an infant. You stalk to the guest room and start throwing your things into bags; you'll be leaving right away.

Pearl is on the bed, confused and crying. You try to change her and call for a taxi simultaneously.

You are infuriated by him. You expect his nosiness, you expect him to jump to conclusions, but this conclusion -- this assumption is just too much. You are furious. If he had just asked you, you would have told him. But he didn't, he just made up what he wanted, made up a story that best fit what he needed in order to keep you away.

You feel him standing behind you in the doorway. You tell him to go away.

"What are you going to do? Leave at this time of night? Travel with the baby? Look how you're upsetting her!"

Screw him! Besides, he's not your father or hers. You can do whatever you want. You don't need his permission. And you don't want to feel like he might be taking care of you, you hiss.

"Cameron!"

His words, not yours.

As you're finishing up, the door bell rings. He sighs and goes to answer it. You know it's the taxi, so you rush down before he sends them away. You hand the driver your bags and tell them you'll be right out, as you go to retrieve your crying child. House is sitting on the bed with her, trying to calm her. It's working (you hate him for that). When you pick her up, more like grab her, she starts crying again. You barely let him say goodbye to her as you walk out the door.

You feel horrible that your actions are upsetting her. You feel horrible that you used her to be the reason to go see House, to be the reason to try to "fix things" with him. Perhaps things are always meant to be broken? It should have just been you and him -- just like you demanded out of him to ponder.

You try your best to calm Pearl on the drive to the train station. Your cell phone keeps ringing. You turn it off. In the terminal, you think people must think you are a horrible mother because your child is screaming bloody murder. She doesn't calm down until you are halfway to New York City. You don't blame her; it's all your fault. Besides, you couldn't calm down, either.

You return to your dark, empty apartment; Pearl finally asleep out of crying exhaustion. You open a bottle of wine, turn off the ringer to your phone, pull out the photo albums and return five of the pictures to their original homes. You left one in Princeton -- of Pearl. Still, in your heart of hearts you felt he should have it; he obviously wanted it. You'll consider this his winnings. Besides, this is not her fault, this is all on you.

END PT 15


	18. Chapter 16

**Title**: **Tragic - PT 16**  
**Pairing**: House/Cameron  
**Rating**: PG  
**Summary**: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - To be or not to be... to forgive or not to forgive... how to move on when House claims she had 'Daddy Issues.'  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
**Note**: S2 does not exist in this story.  
**Beta**: Many many thanks to the wonderful **yutamiyu** who has been very busy with finals and who was also sadly not feeling well last week! - Very glad she's feeling better and survived finals! Also, she was kind enough to read and suffer through the horrible version of this chapter! Many thanks! ;) Also many thanks to **missymeggins** for taking a gander at that version, telling me it was good, but making me realize I really had to be happy with it! -- I wasn't at the time! hugs and kisses Also many thanks to many of my LJ friends (you know who you are) who have been more than supportive as I have been writing this story! xoxo

Note: Sorry for the delay! I had wanted to get this chapter out a lot quicker, but fate intervened. Shortly after I posted Part 15, my computer crashed and I lost _everything_ (no joke) including what I had written of Part 16! The second version I wrote was horrible. You'll have to believe me -- I'm not being super critical -- but it was. So, between getting this darn computer basically running, nutty work schedule, and my normal migraines it's taken a bit longer than I would have liked. I hope you like it none the less! Would love to hear your thoughts & comments (good or bad!) - and I will try to answer all comments as soon as I can. I hope everyone is well! _S_.

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Your week has been horrible. You walk around with a knotted hard ball in your stomach and a pounding and painful head and heart. Your anger fluctuates and rides along like the motions of the ocean waves, sometimes huge squalls, sometimes calm blue waves. You feel like you spend more time sighing, hoping those short breaths will swallow the pain in the empty ventricles of your heart. Your nights have been sleepless, spent tossing and turning or woken by Pearl's nightmares -- a new occurrence since your return trip from Princeton. You are exhausted.

Wilson has called you twice, but you have started screening your calls and have not returned his messages. House must be a real piece of work this week, more so then usual, or you wouldn't be getting these phone calls. You do not blame Wilson. These were your own actions. Part of you regrets running out as abruptly as you did, but you were infuriated. Part of you still is. But when you think about House's words, you are hurt and cold with hot tears burning your eyes. You haven't been able to lose the chill in your body, no matter how many hot showers or baths you take, no matter how many sweaters you add even on these warmer June days. You do not like who you are right now or who have become. Even your daughter is angry with you, acting fussy all week, pushing you away with her baby arms. You didn't think she would start pushing away until she hit double digits, so you're not quite prepared for her behavior at this early age.

You try to keep House out of your mind, brush him out with a broom to keep the cobwebs clear and dust from settling, not wanting anything to live and nestle in your mind and heart. But what you find is that is a mistake, because it just leaves space for new boxes of thoughts and emotions, new packages of turmoil to enter. You don't know what to do, and you don't know what's going to happen. Right now part of you thinks you need to start saying goodbye to him for good this time.

You hate saying goodbye. You've had to say goodbye to too many people in your life, now you try to hold on desperately to the ones that mean something to you. So this is killing you. Letting go has never been easy for you. You still walk around with hidden secrets, bits of your past that don't need to be behind a curtain, but you can't seem to open the curtain, lift the window, and throw them out. You know that some things will always be a part of you, will live inside of you, but letting go was never your strong point.

You were never so glad for a Friday to arrive before. You are emotionally and physically drained. You feel so alone, your apartment a tower stage in which you are trapped, no walls to keep you safe, no ceiling to shield you from the elements, your life just exposed and raw. The city noises seem overwhelming and loud, not comforting like they are at times. Pearl has drained whatever energy you have tried to give her, not the normal pink cheeked happy baby she normally is. You just want to sink into the middle of your bed like quicksand, let the mattress suck you in and bury you in feathery and foam softness, soothe you for a night, but it just hasn't happened.

You get Pearl into bed early. She's cranky and cries for a long time. You're upset by her tears, and you can't seem to comfort her at all. You know there is nothing you can do for her, you have to let her cry herself to sleep, and you hate it. You fight back your own tears listening to her. You stand at the kitchen sink, gulping tears into a glass of wine, talking in hushed tones in the hope she can hear your heart and love from two rooms away. You clean up the kitchen, put the mail away and decide you'll try to turn in early tonight too. Maybe you'll get some actual rest.

You are still chilled. A cold, almost ghostly feeling that has shadowed you all week long. You take a shower and try to find something to comfort you. You find a silk robe your husband gave you as a gift. You haven't worn it in years, keeping it tucked away in a drawer. You slip cool, pale silk over your shoulders, hoping that his memory will start warming you. _Cameron_. Yes, Cameron Brosnan. You remember the day you met him. His soft brown hair, graying at the temples, twinkling, kind brown eyes reacting to yours. Your meeting was accidental, the first of many dominoes to fall, fated meetings, that instant spark, the beginning of change in your life, change you know you were always meant to make. You didn't intend on falling in love with a man twenty plus years your senior. You didn't intend on falling love with a professor, you were just happy he wasn't _your_ professor. You didn't expect that you would fall in love with a man who was dying of cancer. You never expected this dying man to teach you more about living and loving and who knew more about your soul than you did. He would be angry at you now for running, for hiding.

Your husband reminded you on his death bed not to do it again -- not to ignore love. That you should love again, that you should let it into your life. Your face was too full of tears to see the honesty, truth an selflessness in his eyes, though your ears took in the message it didn't want to hear as your heart was breaking. He always knew that you fought against letting love, or some semblance of it, into your life. He knew you could fake it too. He knew that you would never find love easy, you never did. He said it just wouldn't be worth it otherwise to you.

You didn't have to get married. You did because you both loved each other deeply, and partly because he wanted to protect you after his death. You tried not to think about that. Your father was not an easy man, he bordered on dangerous. He was controlling and emotionally abusive at times. He held your mother and your sister under an unusual spell. It was a life you were never happy in. You don't know how your mother survived as long as she did.

You flip pages of your photo albums, some old and distant memories staring back at you like forgotten companions -- eyes full of laughter and glee, other with dark emptiness and unwanted dreams. There are some photographs where you do not recognize yourself, not because you look so different but almost like a ghost of yourself -- a hollow empty cavern that just went through the motions. Fingertips pass through collages of picnics and birthday parties, you a girl with dark braids and without a smile never quite looking directly at the camera. You see the soft familiar face of your mother, her curly hair and her never-ending smile somehow always softening the life she had. She was happy, you don't know how, but she was. You miss her. It upsets you that you can never go home again. It upsets you that it's too difficult to visit her grave. You have tried to send flowers for Mother's Day, her birthday and other holidays and special days, but your father -- then your sister -- have them sent back to you in a box when they're dead and rotten.

You are lucky to have the photos you do have -- few and precious, faded and dog-eared memories. Your mother knew you were going to take a different path, she must have, otherwise she would have never started to send you these few photos, one by one... blank envelopes filled with three or four photos at a time. No note. No return address.

You hated your father, for his controlling and possessive nature. You used to cry to your mother and ask her 'why?' And why didn't she leave him? She never cried and she never frowned. She smiled and told you that sometimes you just can't help who you love. She would hug you and kiss you and tuck you in bed. She always had a faith you didn't understand. You didn't understand why this faith didn't ever help her or guide her better, to a better life. When she started getting sick, you knew it. You saw it. But she ignored it. You urged her to go to the hospital, to see a doctor. Your father said she was fine. Then you were off at school and got married. Your father was furious and disowned you. You were glad to have Cameron's warmth and companionship, you tried not to think about it ever going away.

An old high school friend contacted you when she heard your mom was in the hospital. She was dying. You were furious that this was what happened. You were angry that neither your father nor your sister saw it necessary to get her to the doctor sooner, no matter what you said. You tried calling home to find out what was going on, but your father and sister kept hanging up on you. You decided a trip home was necessary.

Cameron drove you through stormy weather four plus hours to see your mother. He was feeling strong, having good days. When you got to Sacred Heart you were surprised to find your mother alone and in the horrible condition she was in. You made it just in time; she wasn't going to last much longer. She had pancreatic and colon cancer that had gone undetected. She had whittled down to nothing and was frail and ghostly gray.

She opened her eyes when you kissed her on the head. She smiled at you weakly and spoke your name softly. "I knew you would come."

You didn't know. You wanted to cry, but you choked back your tears and held her bony hand even tighter. Cameron was at your side, his warm hand on your shoulder, his heat permeating through the ice in your blood.

Mom, this Cameron, you told her with a weak smile, my husband.

"I know," she smiled, her eyes twinkling. She reached out to him. "I'm so glad to finally meet you."

He took her hand and clasped it gingerly between the two of his. "Mrs. Marks, it's a pleasure."

"I saw you two," she gasped slowly, her breathing labored.

What are you talking about mom?

"I saw you two the day you got married," she smiled warmly at you, her little secret out now. "At the University Chapel. I ran into your friend Leslie at the super market who said she'd see me on the twelfth. That's how I knew when the wedding was." She beamed at you both.

Mom, why didn't you call me? Why didn't you tell me?

"I couldn't let your father know. I made the drive out there, sat in the back row, saw you two exchange your vows, and then drove back. You looked very beautiful and happy, sweetheart."

She reached out to touch your cheek. You were incredibly saddened by her reveal.

"I must say, after all your goings on about God, I was surprised about the Chapel," she laughed lightly.

Cameron chuckled, "No, I wanted that. Allison fought me tooth and nail on it. But it was also the easiest and most convenient. I wanted our marriage to be blessed, and she understood the importance to me."

You were numb. You were shocked by the secrets that comprised your family. You were shocked to see your mother a pale waif before you, acting like having this conversation was the most normal thing in the world.

Mama, you pled, why didn't you call?

She looked at you with deep sadness and regret in her eyes. "I'm not perfect darling. No one is. I loved a man who made life very difficult for me. And I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough for you..."

Mama, you were more than strong! You told her she held you together!

"...but I should have done more, and I couldn't. And, well, things are the way they are... and I'm sorry... life is just sometimes complicated." She smiled weekly at you. "I'm just glad to see that you're happy. Please try to forgive your father and your sister. They just think differently."

Mama...

"Listen to me now," your mother spoke quietly, "try to remember some of the things we have talked about in the past...they'll come to you over time, one day when you'll remember them more and more. I love you, so much."

Mama, stop it!

You didn't hear it...

"What are _you_ doing here?"

You turned abruptly. Your sister. Caroline. Your polar opposite. And completely under your father's spell.

Caroline. How are you?

"YOU, are not supposed to be here!" Her face red, her body grew larger with each angered breath.

Caroline, calm down. You tried to explain to her that you've come to see mom. That you wanted to see mom, that you wanted to spend time with her, you're entitled to it.

Caroline started yelling and screaming. Your mother began to get upset. Cameron tried to calm everyone down. Caroline finally noticed him and started yelling obscenities at him. You asked her to stop. She stalked over to you and grabbed your shoulder and began to yank you out of the room.

Cameron followed, trying to separate you both, but he was not as strong as was before, chemo and radiation had weakened him. You were yelling at your sister, how could she do this to you? You just want to see your mother... the mother that you both share. Your own flesh and blood! She told you that you were no longer her sister. You asked her how could she say that? What gave her the right to kick you out of your mother's hospital room? She stopped dead. Security just arrived. She produced a piece of paper, a legal looking document.

"What gives me the right to kick you out of that hospital room is this document!"

The security officer took it from her hand, read it and passed it to you. You could not believe your eyes. Your father obtained a restraining order from allowing you to visit your mother. Your visitor's pass was under Mr. & Mrs. Brosnan, so security missed it.

You felt defeated. You want to say goodbye. They wouldn't let you. You could not see your mother from where you are. Tears rolled down your face. Cameron wrapped his arms around you and walked you to the car, basically holding you up. You stayed four days in a hotel. You knew in your heart the exact day she died. You watched the funeral from afar, not allowed to attend or be anywhere near it. You watched the bitter man that is your father. You watched the woman that you thought was you sister. Both carrying on and grieving like they really loved this woman who had just passed away, but they didn't love her. They just wanted to own her.

You walked away feeling broken and black. Cameron fed you hot tea and love for weeks until you are felt a bit more like yourself. You were glad to have some of those photos your mother sent. You looked at them almost every day for four weeks, your fingers traced the lines of her face, recalled old memories and hugs and kisses from her.

Cameron took care of you, you didn't ask him to, but you were glad to have his shelter during this storm. Then you swapped roles.

He tells you that after his death he wants you to sell the house. He put it in your name. He wants you to use it for medical school. He left other money for his kids, who are grown and out of college. They never come to see him nor call, and they know he's dying. He wants you to change your name to something new, something that will keep you safe. He's afraid of your father. He's afraid that your father might come looking for you again. You think he's being silly, but you see the seriousness in his eyes. You hate talking about these things, but he doesn't do it often, so you have to listen to him when he does. You just don't want to think he's ever going to go away. He tells you he'll always be with you. You decide he will be.

In the chill of these memories and dreams of ghosts and angels, you drift off to sleep amongst your photo albums and with your lamps on.

You are awoken by a light touch on the bare skin of your shoulder. For some reason you do not jolt up off the bed. You lazily open your eyes and see House's deep blue eyes watching you. His arm extends toward you, hand slightly under the robe that is falling off your shoulder, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

Hi. You say quietly, barely moving. You are exhausted, you know it must be late. His eyes are tired and full.

"Hi." He sits on the edge of the bed.

You ask him if he's really here or if you're asleep.

"I'd pull a piece a hair out of your head or pinch you, but that wouldn't be nice, would it?" he says. "My leg is telling me that driving stick through the Lincoln Tunnel on Friday night is a really bad idea, so yes, I'm really here." He rubs at his thigh.

You have that stunned, confused feeling that one can feel when being awoken during REM sleep. You start to pull yourself up a bit, a warm blush covers your body from sleep. Your robe is still cinched at your waist but barely covering you, you pull it closely to you.

How did he get in your apartment?

"Duh." He shrugs. "Key."

Key?

"Yeah, last time I was here, I had one made," he looks around your room, his eyes taking everything in, remembering.

He had one made?

"Yeah, c'mon! You remember!" He looks at you like you're crazy. And like you two can have a normal conversation right now. "Don't you recall adding me to your security list?"

Vaguely. You're confused, but you let it go for now. Another larger question looms, what is he doing here?

He's silent. Moments pass awkwardly. Finally, he turns to you and looks at you with a seriousness you've never seen before. You can see how tired he is...he looks more tired than you feel.

"Please." He urges. "Please, do _not_ ever do that again."

You raise an eyebrow a bit. You don't reply. You wait for him. You feel like he's not finished. He's not.

"Please, don't run out like that again," he sighs, looks at his hands. "I was worried sick all week, and of course, you know me, too stubborn to call."

You tell him that you're a big girl...

"I know, I know... you're a woman...blah blah blah blah... but," he sighs again, glances at you, "I'm _allowed_ to worry."

Allowed? Oh really?

"Cameron."

Allison.

He looks at you.

You ask him to please call you Allison.

You watch him gulp and nod.

You ask him if he highly encouraged Wilson to call. He doesn't look at you or answer. You have your answer.

"You didn't call him back."

No. Hence his impulsive drive to Manhattan?

"Perhaps?" He smirks. "I'm just a little late following your impulsive trek back into Manhattan."

The room becomes icy again. You lower your head, fingering the silky sash on your robe. The things you haven't discussed.

"How's Pearl?"

Cranky. Fussy.

"Hmm." Silence. "How are you?"

Cranky. Fussy. A small smile tugging at your lips. Tired, very tired. How is he?

"Tired." He pauses. "Cam...Allison..."

Your shoulders lift up with hope. You don't expect the words, but you're not sure what you expect.

"Stop running."

You know that he's right. You didn't expect the words "I'm sorry," but some kind of apology would have been nice. Though, you know that this is Gregory House that you are talking about.

"I'm here," he says and looks at you dead on, "I'm listening, I'm not going anywhere, and...and I don't want you to go anywhere. I don't want to go anywhere..."

You are shocked by his admission. And warmed by it, down to the bone. He has you speechless, but you refuse to drop your guard or your jaw.

What makes him so sure of himself that you have or will forgive him?

"I'm not sure of myself," he smiles, "I'm sure of you."

He leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, the spot he had just discovered with his fingers. He wraps his arms around you, giving you a big hug. You shift with his movements like a doll. Your anger with him has disappeared into the mattress. _He came to you._ Toeing his sneakers off at the end of the bed, he stretches out next to you. He kisses you once, strongly, your face between his palms, his eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, his tongue a soft gentle sweep across your lips and tongue. He inhales your breath as if he needs it to breathe. He holds you in his arms, his face in your neck like it belongs there.

He molds his body and your body together into one, making you warm again. He's not tentative, he's gentle and his movements are deliberate. You can't see his eyes or face. You hear can hear the rhythm of his heart...heavy and steady. His breathing, quiet and soft. And even though you don't speak, there are words laden in this silence, words that neither of you can say at this moment. That he was wrong and don't leave him -- like that ever again. That you will talk to him, you will tell him about your ghosts and angels. That maybe now, you both will love now. His arms are tight around you.

You start to fall asleep in his arms, just exhausted from the emotionally draining week and short conversation, your mind and heart full and aching. His thumb runs up and down along the silk of your robe, you feel the warmness of his skin under your hand, his breath and bristle on your neck, strong arms hold you like a safety belt. You don't want him to protect you from everything. You just want him, to share in the pieces that he gives you, to not feel so alone, because when he's around and when you're with him, you don't feel alone. Ever.

END PT 16


	19. Chapter 17

**Title**: **Tragic** - PT 17  
**Pairing**: House/Cameron  
**Rating**: **MA**  
**Summary**: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - In the morning, was it real or was it a figment of Cameron's mind? Did House really come to her?  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
**Note**: S2 does not exist in this story.  
**Beta**: Many thanks to the lovely **yutamiyu** who has been experiencing horrible internet problems. She found a creative solution (and yummy place) to get this back to me! Thank you thank you! hugs

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You open your eyes to a sunlit Saturday morning, white gray city light pouring through your windows onto your bed, faint sounds of city below reaching up to you in soft tones, your room feeling like an angelic city cloud. You are lying half-naked on your bed, your silk robe barely covering you, edges of you soft comforter pulled around you -- you never got under the blankets last night. You begin to wonder if House's appearance was really just part of your twisted dreams -- a figment of your mind, imagination, hopes and dreams -- or was it a reality? You feel his soft touch on your skin, his mouth on yours, his arms around you warming you... you want to believe that what you remember last night was -- no, _is_ real.

Your dreams were tangled journeys down familiar and unfamiliar paths, some lit so bright they were blinding; other paths you stumbled through were covered in extreme darkness, you moving cautiously, your feet feeling out open spaces before you moved, your hands reaching out to touch walls and organic things as you made your way down twisty passages. You were an explorer last night, Indiana Jones in the jungle of your own mind, in quest of some _thing_, of some truth. You see flashes of images and colors and have feelings that you can't seem to connect into one complete picture, pieces of the puzzle missing. How you wish you could record your dreams.

You glance at the clock, surprised that you haven't heard Pearl stir yet. As you clamor to the edge of your bed, you suddenly note the photo albums neatly stacked on the floor. And then you see evidence that House wasn't a dream – not just a figment of your mind, your heart... You see his jacket, and button down tossed over your chair, belt on the seat, wallet and watch on the bedside table, sneakers tossed at the end of the bed. It _wasn't_ an illusion.

A hearty laugh and baby giggles filter toward your bedroom and stir you from your set gaze. Pulling your robe around you, you stumble toward your kitchen and wonder when you became such a heavy sleeper. The aroma and sweet sounds coming from the kitchen beckon you. First you see Pearl in her highchair, her colorful cups and Cheerios spread before her, bib on, crusted baby cereal on her smiling baby cheeks. You turn the corner to see a socked House, whistling, and flipping pancakes. He looks up and see you, gives you what amounts to be a bashful grin, so you think.

"Hiya."

Pearl turns her head, sees you, squeals like a little piglet and bangs her baby palms on the highchair tray. You go over to her and kiss her head, smoothing over her tousled curls. It's the nicest greeting you've gotten from her all week.

Hi, you say, feeling a little awkward, though trying your best not to, and at the same time trying not to jump out of your skin... because you want to put your arms around him, just for being _here_, for saying what he said last night, your mind becoming more focused, hoping what he said was real. You're still, very still. You're afraid that whatever happened last night was temporary or a dream, even though you're remembering more and more with each waking moment. You're afraid to look away or move. You watch his eyes, but you're not sure what they are telling you right now, temporary curtains hanging, though there is light shining through.

"You hungry?"

He breaks eye contact first. (Damn him.)

"I made pancakes. Wilson's special recipe -- Macadamia Nut."

You move to sit down at the table, feeling, for some reason, a little defeated.

A mug of coffee is put in front of you. You focus your eyes on it, as you feel a hand on your shoulder and a mouth place a kiss on that marked spot discovered on your clavicle last night. You feel him touch the tips of your hair as he walks back to the stove, goose bumps covering your body, you tingling inside and out. You are startled by his display of affection, but you accept it, take it, greedily inhale it into you, and move on, a warm blush covering the inside of your body.

Macadamia nuts? You didn't know you had them.

"You didn't," he says blankly, "I brought a stash I stole from Wilson."

You raise your eyebrow, but he can't see you. You sip your coffee, your eyes focusing on displays on warm swirls of cream in your cup.

You try to quiet your mind, questions and emotions firing as quickly as synapses sending messages in your brain. What's going on? What does this mean? What is he doing? What do you feel? What does he feel? What does he want? What does he expect? What does he see? Does he love you? Does he love you like you love him? What about Pearl? What about everything?

You imagine your eyes are like ping pong balls being swatted across the table in rapid succession, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because suddenly you realize House has pulled up a chair next to you and has laid a warm palm on your leg.

"Cameron, it's okay," he says softly, unlike him. "We have time."

You look at him, and you know your eyes betray the questions and the worry swamping your brain. You wish they didn't, but you know how transparent you can be, even when you don't want to be.

"It's okay," he tells you again, his voice soft in your ear, his lips grazing your face. "Here, eat." He pushes in front of you his favorite breakfast.

You know you need to be assured by his words, by his quiet actions -- these large grand steps for him. You are so afraid. You hear ghostly echoes in your head reminding you to take the chance, that you were once happy, that you still can be. You look at House flipping pancakes on the griddle, making a silver dollar pancake without nuts and cooling it down for Pearl. You watch her mash the small cake into bits with her fingers, eating the warm crumbs, licking her little pudgy baby fingers.

House sits between the two of you, breaking a piece of his pancake off and feeding it into her open mouth, he laughs, she giggles, he turns to look at you with a goofy smile and unusually twinkly blue eyes. Without realizing it, you take a deep breath and cross that line. You reach out and put a hand on his leg and start enjoying breakfast.

Breakfast pretty much is focused on Pearl and conversation is light and airy. It doesn't feel right to you. You think it's awkward for him too, you're both forcing it. But you have a child. And even though she can't quite understand your words, she can feel some of your emotions and understand your facial expressions and it just doesn't seem right to be talking in front of her. This is so difficult. Your chest feels so tight like boa constrictors wrapped around you ready to squeeze the life out of you. But at the same time you feel so grateful that House is here, that you have this chance -- both of you -- to talk, to be, or at least try to be, and that is so new.

You instinctively know how much House secretly loves being around Pearl, so you start gathering breakfast plates and let him tend to cleaning her up. You smile to yourself when you hear him talking to her. You are lost in your own chuckles and washing maple syrup off plates, when you feel a caned-hand and arm wrap around your waist. You gasp lightly at his touch, such a gift and a pleasure to you now.

You turn off the water, drying your hands on a dish rag and turn towards him. He has Pearl on his left hip. She is quietly tracing her fingers over the elaborate pattern on his T-shirt, examining the picture very thoroughly. House watches her intently, his cane pressed against your back, the three of you in a little hug, your arms falling lightly around his waist and in support of Pearl.

His affectionate gestures are still shocking to you, but you are accepting them quietly and without big reactions. Is this the private House? Is this the sharing House? You are tickled on the inside, feeling the pull low within you, and you try not to let it show in your face or eyes too easily.

"So," he says slowly, "normally, well, there is no normal here...but I would never think to ask this of you, but today, I think the circumstances are slightly different."

Yes? You raise an eyebrow in question.

"Any chance," he hesitates, looks quickly at you, at Pearl, back to you, then drops his eyes to the floor, "we could drop Pearl with a babysitter today... so, so we could talk?"

(Greg House _wants_ to talk? You want to mock him, just to tease him, like you guys normally would, but you don't.)

You look at him, note his eyes are full of concern and worry, conflicted by question he has just posed, but you understand why.

Before you answer, he continues, "But tomorrow... tomorrow, we'll spend the whole day with her."

Tomorrow? You smile.

You laugh. He plans on still being here tomorrow. You have a ray of sunshine in you. You suddenly feel like a teenager again.

"And maybe Monday too?" he shrugs and pulls you a little closer. You feel the roughness of his jeans through your robe.

Ok, you laugh, pulling away before the heat of him gets too intense, the smell of his skin so close, the coarseness of his jeans against your silk tingling against your skin. You quickly grab the cordless phone in the kitchen and start dialing away.

Luckily, you soon find an available babysitter that you have used before who is close by, and said she would be more than happy to take Pearl for the day. You feel bad -- you told a white lie. You said you had an emergency at work, and she would be dropped off by her 'godfather.' (He offered. He likes to walk.)

You get Pearl ready and pack together all her things for the day. You send her off with 'Uncle Greg' with a kiss on the head and good directions for her Uncle for the four or so blocks they need to go. You always hate letting her go, even though you've adjusted in order to go back to work, you still miss her during the day. How does he always continue to read you so well? Just knowing how you hate to give up your weekend days with her...you think about taking Monday off.

Although you got some good sleep last night, you're still a bit tired. You know talking with Greg is going to be a bit draining, and you feel you need to pep up and recharge. You run a hot tub, thinking a quick soak will rest your body and enliven your soul for the day. You are at the same time nervous and scared, and excited and joyful to be spending this unusual alone time with Greg. _Greg_ -- you're not used to calling him that, but you're going to try.

The times you two have spent alone together before have been many layers of gray, unanswered questions and unspoken words floating like rain heavy clouds through the room. Even the one night of pleasure you shared together was full of the unspoken -- the things you dared not to say, thoughts and emotions you could not put words to, the explicit pleasure you two joined in becoming a disappointment because of the things you avoided, the fear you discovered later in both of your eyes, the things you were both afraid to see. Do you still have that same fear? Why are you trying now?

You sink further into your hot bubbles, finding one of Pearl's bath toys with your toe. You lift it up with your foot and toss it into the sink. You think about that fear again, that black blanket that both have covered yourselves with for a long time. Why let go now? You should shoot yourself. You roll your eyes and laugh at yourself and recall the many times you tried to let white bubbles replace the dark blanket as you cried in the tub, deep sobs echoing off tile walls. You were lonely. You've been truly alone. You have missed him. Him. His friendship. His companionship. Even his sharp, acerbic manner and tongue. You blush at your thoughts -- just thinking of him -- and bring your hand to your forehead and cover your face.

"Allison?"

You nearly jump out of the bathtub, water and bubbles splashing up the walls and onto the floor, your heart in your throat muffling a scream.

House is standing in the open doorway. He laughs. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

You try to calm yourself, your hands braced over your chest to calm your heart. You look at him and laugh.

He got back rather quickly.

"It wasn't far," he limps into the bathroom. "You were in deep in thought," he states, grabbing a spare towel and tossing it on the wet floor.

Hmm. Yes, you guess. Just thinking, you tell him.

"Really?" He's unbuttoning his oxford and toeing off his shoes, his cane hanging on the towel rack.

You watch him. You ask him what is he doing?

"Joining you," he says matter-of-factly.

You must look surprised. His T-shirt is now with his oxford, socks in sneakers, he looks at you. "Cover your eyes."

Seriously?

"Seriously."

You're insanely smiling as you shut your eyes tight. (You laugh a little to yourself, keeping it all inside, you've already seen his thigh, he's already seen your pregnancy stretch marks and your breasts before _and_ after pregnancy -- which are obviously not the same. What is there left to hide?) You don't know what to think. You like the idea of him joining you in your tub -- for his company and his closeness (you smirk on the inside). You two have this crazy, weird bathroom thing; you actually feel pretty comfortable sitting naked in a tub with him around.

What's weird is that you've never really _dated_. And what would you define what you two have? Is it any semblance of a relationship? What two people share a tub for Pete's sake? Your head is spinning.

You hear the water splash lightly as a limb is inserted into the tub, the level of warm water shifting around your skin. You say to him, he's pretty comfortable in the bathroom with you, huh?

"I don't know quite how to answer that yet," he answers as you hear him continue to lower his body into the water, little waves rippling up against your skin tickling you, his feet brushing with yours. "We always seem to have somewhat serious conversations in the bathroom..."

True, you laugh.

"I don't know why, it's kind of weird, but I guess it works." He pauses. "Ok, you can open them."

You open your eyes to see him seated across from you, his legs running up along your thighs feel like silk in the water, his feet playfully tapping at your hips. You enjoy the view of his muscular arms relaxing along the edge of the tub, long fingers tapping out a tune on the porcelain. You want to gasp, but you control yourself. But, _God, he's sexy_. You are trying to maintain your control and not crawl yourself across the tub and straddle yourself across his lap, so your fingers and your mouth can explore every inch of his chest and neck, face, mouth, hair, nibble his ears, stare into those blue blue eyes, feel his stubble on your skin. You are holding back a grin.

He gives you a quick and large cheesy smile that he quickly puts away. You laugh and he grabs at your foot and pulls your body towards him. You lose your balance, your torso falling back into the water. Greg grabs at your elbow, pulling you out of the soapy water and bringing you closer to him, a small beautiful smile gracing his face. Again, you are surprised by his actions -- but you love when he surprises you.

Water is running down your back, your hair dripping with bubbles, he pulls you closer to his chest -- one hand wrapped around your waist, one holding your wrist. "I've got to tell you, I've been wanting to do this for too long."

He leans in and kisses you hotly, lips caressing yours, his hot thick tongue delving into your mouth, probing your tongue, exploring you, tasting you, his scruff burning your cheek. His hand holding your wrists tightly between your two chests, he releases his hand upward to caress your cheek. You moan lightly into his mouth as he sucks on your tongue.

He pulls away and nuzzles your neck, your body responding in every way -- your breathing becoming hitched, wet nipples hardening in the cool air and just against the touch of his skin, hot wetness between your thighs in the water. You instantly feel relaxed, feel worries melting away from your frame, you feel enraptured by his touch, his mouth, his steely gaze on you. His hands are remapping your body, your buttocks, your breasts. You are at his will.

Abruptly he pushes you back. You know your eyes are heavy with lust and question. His are strong and sturdy, and also heavy with desire. "I want you, badly. Don't doubt that," he says shaking his head at the bath pool, "but that's not why I got in here... well, not the main reason," he continues, a small smile briefly grazing his lips, you watch his chest breathing heavily.

You calm yourself a little to listen to him, though you are heaving and throbbing with desire.

He holds your wrists gently. "I came here," he says, indicating the whole space around you both, "hoping you would talk to me. And well, you didn't throw me out the door like I deserved, but I don't want you to think I don't want to talk about some of the things that we need to talk about -- and you know I'm pulling my own teeth here, because we should. And I don't want to fuck this up. Okay?" You know he's stumbling and searching for the right words, you see the strain in his face, the difficulty of making those sentences.

Okay, you agree.

He looks relieved by your agreement.

But, you begin, A) if we stay in the tub, we're going to get all shriveled and pruney and B), you say, standing in the tub in front of him, reaching out your hand to him, if we don't do something right away with this excess 'energy' (you wink), the two of you will never be able to talk seriously.

You pull the stopper, and you see his face drain with the water. You are still standing in front of him, feet in a stance over his legs. He sits up a bit and leans himself forward, his warm tongue licking up your inner thighs. A sigh escapes you. Long fingers part your curls and a tongue darts softly and wetly over you little nub, as his fingers start to explore your folds. Your legs feel weak.

He removes his mouth. An evil smirk appears on his face, "I agree. Hand me my cane, would you?"

You step gingerly out of the tub, his fingers grazing your skin as your feet move from porcelain to bath mat. You hand him his cane, you're about to ask him if needs your help but you're not sure if you should, when he says, "I don't need your help, but wait for me."

You quickly dry off with a towel and go to the cabinet for another one for Greg. He quickly takes it from you, wrapping it around his waist. You can't help but notice his erection making its declaration through the terry cloth.

You start to head into your bedroom, you place a hand out behind you for Greg, which he accepts, interlacing his fingers with yours. He pulls you close to him, and the two of you travel as one, he removing your towel as you walk, hands exploring your breasts again, his mouth nuzzling your neck -- right away remembering that spot that made you squirm and scream. You feel his cock pressing through the towel right up against you. You want to touch him, stroke him, taste him.

You fall onto the bed together. Hands and mouths exploring each other rapidly and with great pleasure. This intimacy so different than last time. Now you are both more playful -- teasing, smiling... happy. There is thorough exploration of each other's bodies -- time taken that wasn't taken before. Greg's mouth and tongue a wonderful sweet sponge exploring, tasting, pleasuring you. You love when he spreads your legs wide and explores your entire sex with his mouth and tongue -- taking his time to stroke you to the edge, and then backing you down, and doing it all over again. Hot kisses up along thighs are tantalizing you, your nipples aching to be held between his teeth.

He seems forever lapping between your legs; you could die from the pleasure. His fingers spread you apart, his tongue flat against you running the entire length of you, teasing you clit. He rubs his scruff gently along you, the painful pleasure making you cry out for more, your back arching. He lifts your hips and ass toward him, wrapping your legs over his shoulders. His tongue darts in and out of you, but you need more, he's tantalizing you without mercy. Then you feel a long finger slip into you, you cry out aching for more. You catch his eyes, urging him on, your hands going down to his hair, your legs wrapping tighter around his shoulders. As he slips in another finger, you feel your muscles tightening a bit. You are in ecstasy. You feel him slip in a third, and you moan. His tongue stops tracing the length of you and finds your swollen nub. He swirls it, you feel hot flashes behind your eyes.

You coo 'Oh Baby,' not realizing the words slipping out of your mouth. Your body starts forcing itself down onto his face, his fingers fucking you faster, his tongue sucking at your clit and your gone, you're screaming out, grabbing a fistful of his hair, wanting to fuck now, wanting to fuck _him_ now, as electricity shudders from your head down through your spine to your toes and you fall back totally wasted and sated. He pulling and draining from you an amazing climax.

You suddenly feel very bashful and aware and vulnerable. Greg smiles at you, but doesn't move from his position between your legs. Slowly he begins to lap up all your juices. You want to protest, but you are filled with aftershocks by each lap, your body betraying you. He works his way upward, laying baby kisses across your belly, sucking on breasts, finally finding your mouth and inhaling it deeply -- you tasting yourself on him.

"Feeling better?" he smiles, burying his face in your neck, his body hot pressed up against yours.

You're speechless. You cannot speak.

"Good. We can talk now with much less distraction," he says smartly.

You are in awe of him. Your eyes wide, your mouth silent.

"Great pussy, by the way," he smiles.

You smack him lightly on the arm, roll on top of him, and start kissing his neck and chest, running your tongue along his jaw, nibbling on his ear in the way you noticed makes him curl his toes. You are _not_ done. You need to pleasure him, or bring him to climax the way he did for you. There would be a distraction, for you, if you didn't. Or if you didn't at least consummate this day, bring it all together, as you have been coming together since the early morning hours. Things clicking all together into places like they never have before.

You open a bedside drawer and pull out a condom (for some reason, you decided to stock up after your last encounter, wishful thinking come true). He looks at you with raised eyebrows. You roll it onto his cock and slowly lower yourself onto him. He closes his eyes, gasping quietly. You feel his hands come around and grab your ass. You love the control you have in riding him -- the speed, the pressure, the tightness of your muscles.

You can tell he is feeling impatient as he starts to thrust upwards to you. You hold him down with your hips to make that harder and smile at him, leaning over to lick to him lips and grin evilly at him. Slowly you clench, and roll yourself around his cock so tightly he lets out a loud moan. You bring yourself up to the tip of his length and come down hard and tight, you increase your speed. The friction is bringing you to climax again, you feel wanton, sweaty, your breasts heaving, you are losing yourself in this enjoyment.

You see him watching you, getting more aroused the hotter and more wanton you feel and display, his hand exploring your body, running over your back and your breasts. You suddenly feel very light and you know you are coming to come again, you tell him. He holds your hips, thrusting into you hard as you cry out, ripples exploding through your body. You watch his face wince -- a mixture of pain and pleasure, a certain heat filling you, a flush immediately crawling up his neck. You collapse against him, and Greg wraps his arms around you, kissing your head.

Your face nestled against his sweat laced chest, his fine hairs tickling your cheek. His fingers are running up and down your back, the afternoon sun white, glistening the room in an unusual snowy softness, everything feeling downy. You feel like you are floating on a cloud. You feel like you two are finally fitting your pieces together.

Okay, you tell him, we can talk now.

END PT 17


	20. Chapter 18

**Title**: **Tragic** - PT 18  
**Pairing**: House/Cameron  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Summary**: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - To talk or not to talk?  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of it, just playing...  
**Note**: S2 does not exist in this story.  
**Beta**: Many thanks to the lovely **yutamiyu** for beta-ing! ;)

Hmm, well, feel a little iffy about this part. I went a bit "off course" but things will be going back on course again (I hope...well, that's the plan!), questions to be answered, timeline moving ahead, etc. I would, of course, as always, love to hear your feedback, thought and comments! _S_.

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Your head is skimming over the events of the last few weeks, your mother's words echoing through your mind, _"Sometimes things happen for a reason,"_ soft reminders falling gently on pillows nudging at your head and heart. Events, angry words and rushed actions tumbled and flowed, ached and hurt, with you tossed like rock down the side of a craggy hill. You lay at the bottom briefly, trying to catch your breath, your skin and soul quickly bruising because of objects you dislodged on your tumble downward; you walked away. Though you were a bit tattered and torn within, you didn't break, although at times you thought you might shatter like glass and you didn't know how you would get through it, didn't see the light, didn't feel warmth.

Now you lay warm, happy, and cozy, face to face naked in bed bathed in the early afternoon sun, close and nearly snuggled with the man you are in love with. You suddenly find it difficult to know exactly what it is you're both supposed to be talking about -- what _you_, in particular, are to be talking about, telling and sharing with what you hope is and will remain your new lover. This is a promise you made. But you are confused where to start. What started this tumble downward? These difficult weeks? This anger? This fight? The exchange of harsh words?

You wish the slate was clean. It feels clean. It _was_ all about talking and _not_ talking. You don't want to ruin it now. This glow you have within you right now is casting over everything, making everything seem and feel perfect, even though you know this is far from the truth. You don't want to break this spell. It feels too good.

You had already admitted that you both have difficult things to discuss. Maybe being naked in bed together will be a good thing -- neither of you can run away too quickly. After the intimacy, you feel close and connected to House, you hope he feels the same. You both agree that you might hear things that neither of you might not like, but you agree to hear it all the way through. You try not to let worries creep back into your de-stressed body, but you have to bring up your past, because that is a big part of what you need to share with House. And even though the past may have helped you frame your decisions or led you to change your life, it is not who you are today. You ask Greg to remember this, and he looks at you curiously. For the first time, he appears to be trying to clear his slate -- his presumptions -- that he usually carries around with him like defensive armor and weaponry.

He is looking at you a little softer, a little more caring, his eyes with less of an edge, you are not used to this in him, but you are grateful and nervous and still unsure of where to begin. Something in you compels you to reach out and squeeze his hand (you need it more) and quickly kiss his lips; he strokes your hair in return -- the best assurance he can give you right now. And though you feel like a frightened kitten, it's as if he's given you a saucer of warm milk which you lap up gratefully and with fervor and grace.

He listens quietly, seemingly grasping at each word that leaves your mouth, his eyes darkening and narrowing, trying to absorb and consume each word and emotion you dish out, analyzing and processing all in his massive brain. He seems far away as you begin to tell him about you and your family and your life with them. You can see him trying to visualize it, trying to build pieces of the puzzle, figuring out where the holes are, finding the places where he can ask you difficult questions you won't know how to answer. You try your best to describe your destructive and abusively-controlling father, your lovely, strong, yet weak-willed mother, and your brain-washed sister. You try to remain detached from your past, try to keep your emotions tucked away, try not to allow tears to slip past your eyes, you don't want to break down. You try to be a storyteller, an orator of a history that belongs to you. This pains you, but you think this is necessary for you and your heart as long as possible. You still fear being weak in front of House; he's seen you weak so often, you don't need to be a puddle right now.

Now that you are removed from that situation of your difficult family, you don't want to dishonor your mother or her memory, you think she did the best she could with the circumstances that life gave her -- that she tried to give you the best and happiest and normal childhood she could, she really did. And your father, though you do not miss him, you don't hate him either. He is who he is, and he wasn't always a horrible man, sometimes you wonder how he is. You know it's best for him not to be in your life or know about you or where you are, and honestly, at one point it was actually safer for you. House quirks his eyebrow at that comment.

You are hurt most by the absence of your sister and her behavior towards you, especially when your mother was dying. You tell House about the trip you and your husband took to see your mother and how glad you were to see her and how horribly it ended. It pains you just to think of that time, you try to keep it hidden, flowers plucked off her casket pressed in a book that you no longer look at, stored in a hope chest filled with memories that you keep piling in there, opening the lid, shoving them in, trying hard not to look at what else is in there. They are items of remembrance calling to you, calling your name – memories and ghosts echoing off cedar begging to be remembered -- a chest that takes great strength for you to open all the way, to sit and sift through, you fearful of the tears that come from your heart, and the lonely days you often face. (You keep the hope chest and its enclosed memories to yourself, perhaps you'll share it another time. You know House will call you a sentimental fool, especially once he knows a dried white corsage is in there. For now, these are your private secrets and memories.)

You pause, not sure where to go... to tell House about your husband, to tell him about why you and your family are no longer connected, why you changed your name... all of these things helping you choose a path that made you the woman you are today. A fiercely private woman. A woman afraid of so many things: trusting, loving, believing; a woman who is often alone, who has to face many battles by herself, who often has no one to rely on, who is used to running away to save herself, who is used to people leaving her. You know this is what makes you fiercely protective of Pearl... that you will never stop loving her, you will never leave her, you will do anything to protect her... to protect her in ways that you never were.

You look at Greg, his face still open, listening and absorbing. You feel calm still, though emotional at times when talking about your mother, you try to fight that back. You are afraid of opening up, pouring all this out; you keep biting on your bottom lip. You fear giving out all this information, feeding it to House... he the master of manipulation and analysis. You _are_ trusting him greatly here, you hope he realizes how difficult this is for you. He must, right? He hasn't left yet, he hasn't made any snide comments. There is hope... you brighten again... your mind a whirlwind, a roller coaster of emotions.

You pause, and he patiently waits. For an anxious and fidgety man, you are surprised by his generosity. He is constantly surprising you this weekend, giving you so very much; just compassionate and being warm... it's so unusual, but you're enjoying it. It makes you so happy. You know you deserve it, it warms you from within. You look at his face, so close and so intimate with you it sprouts a happiness from you that brings tears of happiness to your eyes. You quickly blink them back, your lashes wet, as you smile, and lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, the bristles on his face brushing roughly on your lips. He rubs your bare shoulder and kisses you back, an encouragement to continue.

But your mind is lost, you feel a downward black spiral and you are falling into it. You see in the darkness those familiar perches that you would sometimes cling to, safely land upon for awhile, giving you time to breathe and search for the light and your sanity. You're afraid. You do not know how to proceed. You don't know how to tell House about your husband, your relationship with him, and your complicated family life often interfering and damaging your life and your plans and your happiness. Besides, there are some things, some details about your marriage that are private. You loved your husband, he'll always occupy a part of your heart and soul. You know he's your history, and you plan on keeping it that way, but it's yours and part of it is just private...special to you. But how can you be sure that when you explain everything to Greg, he'll understand? About your husband, his age, his illness, your circumstances, and your family? How will he not think you search only for one kind of man, that you're not only attracted to older men, damaged men, and men who might be able to take care of you – all these things he suggested... so wrong, but seemingly so obvious?

Your mind flashes back to what has brought you two together in the last year or more. You facing false happiness, then tragedy, and depression; House at your side, guiding you, helping you, being there for you without you asking, without you knowing that he cared enough to try to be a friend to you, to care for you. You giving birth to your greatest gift, and he there all along -- there feeling your expanding, kicking belly, waking up in the middle of the night for Pearl's delivery, cutting her umbilical cord, holding her first before handing her to you. Your mind is a flipping scrapbook of dark and sunny days and unexpected memories, a growing, unforeseen friendship that you secretly worshiped and treasured that held your days and guided you through times and difficulties you never expected; House doing things for you that you would have never asked for, things you would have never dreamed of asking for. He became your best friend, the cheerleader and coach during your misery, the safe keeper of all that could be lost. He was guardian over your pregnancy and child, fighting for Pearl and her rights with Stacey before you even understood what was happening. He agreed to take on potential responsibilities with barely a blink of an eye. He sacrificed his normalcy, what usually keeps him ticking, to stay with you and your newborn infant so you had time to rest and get adjusted. And during all this time, you two bonded and were happy. You constantly feared losing him and you constantly wanted to hide, even though he gave you no reason to. He was there with unusual and unspoken open arms and support, loving your child, and being a better friend to you than you have had since Cameron passed away. Being a better friend to you then you were to him. Why be afraid now? Why? You feel immensely lonely when he's not around, you need to stop being so afraid...

"What's wrong?" He runs a finger along your cheek, lifting your chin toward him.

You shake your head; you don't know. But there are tears that wet your lashes. Your throat feels tight.

"Are you afraid I'm going to judge you?" he asks calmly.

Suddenly all the spinning stops. Maybe a little, you tell him.

"I'm not," he tells you. He rolls on his back, his arm still around you. "Allison, I should have not said all those things to you..."

You whisper that he could have asked.

"Yeah, I know... I delve into everyone else's personal history... I just couldn't, and you just didn't seem to keen on sharing it."

It's been hard, you tell him.

"I can see that." He looks at you, rolls back on his side. "I don't want to force you...and you know I'm a nosy bastard."

He gets a giggle from you.

"C'mere." He pulls you close. "When you're ready, you can tell me all about it. Or you can tell me about it in bits and pieces."

You feel warm and safe in his arms. You always wondered if you would know this feeling. He kisses your neck and holds your body close.

"Don't worry, I'm big and scary myself, so I don't scare easy, okay?"

You laugh against his body. Okay.

He pulls away and lays his head against the pillow, his eyes closed shut, squeezing something out, a facial expression that you don't recognize. You reach up and ruffle his hair with your fingertips and quickly kiss his lips.

You tell him you were afraid, that you _are_ afraid. You lay back so you're lying side by side. You've been afraid of a lot of things.

You don't know where to start, but you find yourself pulling up fears that you had long forgotten about. You start pouring everything in your mind and heart out like sand from a broken hourglass. Of course, you worry that you're overwhelming him, and you tell him this. You were afraid that he cared more for the baby then for you. You were confused about everything you were feeling and going through. You were confused about House and his place in your life, your growing bond and friendship and your feelings. His actions affected your heart, you didn't always understand what he was doing and they didn't always come with explanations. You've been in love with him longer then you can remember, but for a long time now you have struggled to talk about your feelings for him. Any approach you made toward him in intimacy, you felt shut-out by him. You tried to deny how you felt, to put it away, but you never could.

You hate that he knows you so well, that he can read you like a book; you're afraid of being weak in front of him, though he has seen you falter too many times since Ryan died, you facing emotions and breakdowns you've never expected, pent up pain spilling over. He surprised you; you never expected his support. He hurt you at times, sometimes you understood, sometimes you didn't; you didn't want to play those games with him, especially not anymore. Things between you two were always complicated, never easy; there was never an easy explanation to how you got somewhere, no easy answer to how some miscommunication came about, or how or why you missed him, it just was. Your mind is so jumbled, words, ideas, thoughts, feelings, flowing like free water through an open spout...

"Cameron," he cuts you off, "there is so much I want to know...and I'm sure there are a lot of things you want me to share, which is hard for me... but I just need to be around. Because when I'm not around you and around Pearl, I start thinking and I do it way too much, and it's not good."

You wipe your tears away with your fingers and clear your mind and open yourself to listen to him.

"You know me equally as well." He turns and glances at you. "In a lot of ways, that perhaps you realize or don't realize... but this is going to be difficult for me, and I'm only going to say this once: I'm going to need your help. You're going to have to call me when you can and force me to make plans to see you if I seem reluctant, because it's not that I am. It's because during our time apart my mind overtook me and over-analyzed everything."

You understand what he is saying, and it clicks with you. You can see in your mind the times that he has done this, your presence often an obstacle to stopping this process, somehow.

"When I'm not around you, I start thinking about things I shouldn't think about," he sighs sadly, "like how old I feel sometimes and how young and beautiful you are..."

You reach across and put your arm across his chest, wanting to warm him in whatever way you can.

"I think about jog-strollers, and running after toddlers, and you wanting to go dancing one day, and your blossoming career, and the fact that I hate change." You kiss his shoulder lightly. "And I think how could you possibly want me, when you could have a good looking music teacher, albeit with no income, but he's decently good looking, seems nice to your kid, has two good legs and can go out in blizzards for you when you need him to?"

Greg...

"Allison...there's just so many things..."

You know, but...

"I'm just saying, this is how my brain works, and logically I know how insane it sounds, which is why I said I'll need your help, and it's not easy for me to ask for that...so stamp it in your head." He smiles at you weakly.

You pull him into an embrace that he accepts. It's a start for both of you. And neither of you are perfect, you'll just have to take it one step at a time, right? Besides, he likes to make you breakfast, he adores your daughter, you melt when he calls her "munchkin" and you miss him heart and soul when you're without him. Now you can see how he misses you in his own deranged and demented way.

"So, you really like older men?"

You aren't prejudiced against age, you respond smugly. In fact, you tell him, your husband would have been older than him.

"Oh, really?" He smirks. "You are interesting creature, Dr. Cameron."

Perhaps, you shrug.

But perhaps you aren't. Perhaps you're just someone who has been down a twisted road of life. Taken a journey that has led you places you never planned on going, experienced things most people never do. You would like to think you're "normal," and for the most part you are. But you have suffered, and you have been alone more then most people; you've been through more in your thirty-odd years then some have been in their lifetimes. And House has been too. Somehow you think this makes you alike, kindred spirits, how you understand and crave each other. You two keep tumbling into each others lives... things keep happening that bring you together, pulling you together. Really just the two of you pulling, no, reaching out to each other in need and want. Or should you start believing that your mother is watching out over you, causing 'Fate' to intercede – causing 'things to happen for a reason.' You don't know. You just know that you know you have a lot to figure out in time.

END PT 18


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